


Learning to Live Again

by Ebozay



Series: Learning [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Azgeda, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Healing, Icenation, POV Second Person, Skaikru
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-24 20:18:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 49,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10749069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebozay/pseuds/Ebozay
Summary: A story chronicling the rise of a young Lexa and how she must learn to live with the consequences of her decisions, all the while dealing with old foes and new challenges.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You don't exactly have to read part one but it would give more backstory to what's happening.

You had come into the world a whirlwind of emotions, of pain and loss, of confusion and frustration, you hadn’t known what to do so you had screamed and cried and wailed to the raging night around you, your hands reaching for the presence you had felt besides you since as long as your infant mind could comprehend. And then you had been cradled in strong arms and hushed words of love and affection — none of which you could really comprehend — you had wailed even louder, even stronger than before always searching for the presence that you so longed for. And then you had been placed down, and you felt it, that constant, steady and grounding weight next to you and you had settled, comforted and content that you were there, where you belonged with who you belonged with. 

You had turned your head, only slightly, but just enough and you had opened your eyes for the first time, the dark of the night still too bright, too loud, too different and it had hurt, and stung and you had wanted to shut your eyes again, but she had been looking at you, and her gaze was steady, it was bright and vibrant and her eyes had danced in the orange light that surrounded you and so you too held her gaze, comforted by the green that stared back.

You had reached out then, if only to feel her touch once more, and she too had held out her small warm hand. A smile in her eyes and you had thought, you had believed that in this instant, she was that moment between the beats of your heart, never really felt but always there, always one after the other, together in everything.

 

* * *

 

You had only just passed the first year of birth, inseparable in everything, with her besides you always, you had never once gone a day without looking at her, without holding her in some way, without even thinking about her, and you would have followed her wherever she had attempted to go. She was your other half. And your mother had cradled you in her arms every night, had sung you songs in a voice, soft and sweet, full of emotion and you had looked up into her eyes, green and vibrant just like hers, and when you had looked at her besides you, she had smiled, laughter reflected in her own green eyes and she had reached out to take a hold of the braid that so often fell within reach of both of your hands, and so you too had smiled, had stretched out a small hand to grasp the braid that was always there, always within reach, always one after the other, together in everything.

 

* * *

 

When you had survived your second year your mother had been called away — hushed words of survival, conflict and clan fighting falling onto blissfully unaware ears, you hadn’t known what those words had meant and you had been happy when your mother had once more taken you both in her arms, had cradled you close and pressed her lips to your foreheads with whispered words, full of emotion and a promise to come home, to see you both once more and you had been happy to grasp her braid  as you had done forever, to play with it and to suck gently on the end but you had seen her besides you, her eyes filling with tears and she had cried and shouted and held on ever so tightly to the braid in her own small hand and so you too had raged into the night, had let the tears fall and had held on as hard as you could, always one after the other, together in everything.

 

* * *

 

The winter had been long, harsh and cold, many nights spent cradled in your fathers embrace, strong and steady, the beat of his heart lulling you into a quiet, peaceful slumber. But you had fallen ill, the winter nights too biting, too devastating for your small body. You had coughed, and gasped, the breath a constant struggle to escape your lungs and your father had been there, had cried, the tears falling from his eyes, and you had thought that he was sad as he held you ever so tightly, words of prayer falling onto blissfully unaware ears. But you weren’t afraid because she wasn’t here, she wasn’t with you as each breath fought to escape your lungs, so you wouldn’t go where the winter was calling you because she wasn’t going there with you, and so you had fought, you had struggled and you had succeeded, and when you had been returned to her side, her presence ever so comforting, she had smiled at you and you had smiled back, always one after the other, together in everything.

 

* * *

 

When your father had entered your room, a haunted, devastated, broken shine to his eyes, and when he had held you both in his arms she had wailed and cried and screamed and so you too had done the same for if she had felt the need to do something so too must you. And when your father had held out a braid to each of you, at once familiar yet so, so different, you had reached out and taken it, just like she had, and when she held it close to her, had embraced it so very, very tightly, so too had you and when she had raged into the void? You had done the same, always one after the other, together in everything.

 

* * *

 

You had survived almost four years, your body growing stronger, able to survive the harshness that was the ground, you had weathered the biting colds of the winter and the searing heats of the summer and you had grown, always with her by your side. And so you had found yourself, hanging from a branch just under her, struggling to reach, to climb even higher. And because she was there you wouldn’t fail, wouldn’t even think of not following her even if you couldn’t quite reach as high as her, if you couldn’t quite hold on as tightly. And your grip on the branch had wavered for just a moment, for just one terrifying, still second — you would fall, you would plummet to the ground — but she had reached out, had snatched you from the thralls of gravity and had held you tightly in her embrace, if she wasn’t to fall, you wouldn’t either, she wouldn’t let you, so you had climbed again, higher and higher, always one after the other, together in everything.  

 

* * *

 

When the hunting party had returned, you had looked up from where you played with the other children, her always by your side, and when you had looked and searched for the familiar face of your father, the ochre of his laugh and the timber of his voice always there to call you to him, you couldn’t hear it, couldn’t see him, couldn’t _feel_ him. And when a hunter had knelt down besides you, had clasped you both by the shoulder so very softly, a shine to his eyes, whispered words of _the Mountain_ gracing your ears, her lip had trembled, her shoulders had shaken and her head had bowed, and so you too had felt the wetness pool in your eyes, had felt your hands begin to shake and the breath in your lungs begin to come in ragged gasps but you had felt her hand in yours, steady and grounding, and when she had squeezed so very tightly, you too had done the same, always one after the other, together in everything.

 

* * *

 

You had fallen, a nasty, deep cut had ran down the side of your leg and you had gasped, had held your leg ever so tightly and she had knelt down besides you, had embraced you ever so tightly and had whispered soothing words into your ear as she helped you back to the healers hut. You didn’t notice the blackness that oozed from your cut, you didn’t understand the shocked gazes from the other children you passed or the saddened eyes of the village adults that followed you as you hobbled into the hut, her embrace the only thing you felt and when she had squeezed you so very hard, afraid to let go, you had done the same, always one after the other, together in everything. 

 

* * *

 

You had slept in the healers hut that night, her hand resting in yours and her head laid against the edge of your bed, you had gazed at her softly as she slept, the familiar waves of her hair cascading around her face, you had memorised her face and had loved her with everything you could imagine, and you had thought that you would follow her anywhere, would always be by her side and then you too had let sleep embrace you and in her sleep she had squeezed your hand ever so softly and you had returned it, always one after the other, together in everything. 

_You never noticed the warriors, proud and strong, atop their horses as they rode into the village late that night._

 

* * *

 

You had woken to angry words, to shouts and threats and you had looked for her, had searched frantically for where she had gone, to be comforted by her presence and you had seen her, barring the entrance to the healers hut, a warrior, tall and looming, her cheeks prominent, the dark of her warpaint deathly smudges around her eyes, her hair lighter than your own. You had seen the warrior smirk at her, had even knelt down besides her to offer quiet words before she had moved past her, had walked up to you and looked down at you as you lay, eyes widened in fear before you had turned to look at her, still lingering in the doorway, tears in her eyes and you had felt your own eyes begin to water, begin to blur your vision and as her tears fell, so too did yours, always one after the other, together in everything.

 

* * *

 

You had been taken by the arm, had been led to warriors atop their horses, faces hard from years of war, of suffering, of surviving, a man, tall and bearded, hair shorn close to the sides had smiled softly at you as your gaze fell on him and you had seen another, clothed in robes, head bald and gaze stern. He had knelt down besides you, had quickly inspected the deep cut that ran down your leg and had spoken to the warriors that surrounded you _she has the blood_ and you had been swept off your feet, had been placed in front of that same woman who had entered the healers hut the previous day, and she had held you in a firm embrace. 

You had been taken form where you had grown, from where you had survived for the first five years with her always by your side, and as you exited the village gates you had heard it then, faint at first but louder, desperation beginning to fill it with emotion, you had heard your name, cried over and over again and you had seen her running, her small legs frantically, desperately trying to reach the horses that took you from her and she had reached out and grasped at the air before her. You had twisted and turned in the saddle, trying to catch her eyes just once more and the warrior had lifted her arm, just slightly — ignoring the stern look from the bald man — and you had looked back, had reached out your own hand and you watched as she had fallen, her legs unable to keep up, but she had struggled to her feet, all the while crying your name, pleading for you to be returned and her eyes had filled with tears and they had fallen down her face, the green of her eyes shining with a desperation, with a devastation that you had only seen once before and so too had your eyes filled with tears, and you had let them fall.

You had cried out to her a promise and you had meant it, with the entirety of your being and you had believed it, you had wished it so very, very much.

_I will see you soon_

But you had seen it in her eyes, the resignation in them and you felt the hollow beat of your heart. And you had looked at her as she knelt on the ground her eyes never wavering from yours, memorising the green of your eyes and you had looked at her in turn until a bend in the path had stolen her from you.

_You didn't see Cleo again for many, many years._


	2. Chapter 2

You have never been further than the surrounding forests of your village, but you now find yourself struggling to comprehend just how vast the world outside could really be. The warriors murmur softly amongst themselves, some even glancing your way, a strangeness to the way their eyes dart away when you meet their inquisitive looks and you don’t understand, you can’t even grasp the _why_ — why had you been taken, why had they not let Cleo come with you? And you ask the warrior behind you, _Where is Cleo_ but she merely holds you a bit tighter and whispers _She can not follow you anymore._

You stop as nightfall nears, the warriors quickly erecting tents that will keep the dangers of the night away and you are placed by a fire, its orange flame warming your cold, tired body. You feel alone — more than you have ever felt before and you find yourself instinctively looking for her grounding presence, her smile a signal fire in the darkness, her presence the shining beacon to guide you through the turmoil you find yourself.

 _She can not follow you anymore_.

You let the tears fall then, you close your eyes so tightly and wrap your arms around yourself, and you pretend, just for a moment that they aren’t your arms and for just a beat of your heart you think you could lose yourself and just forget.

“What is your name?” it comes soft, and you feel a hand slowly rest itself across your back and you feel the warm press of a body to your side. 

“Alexandria,” you answer through your tears, your shoulders shaking slowly — but Cleo had always called you _Lexa —_ and so you correct yourself, if only so that you can hold onto something of hers for just a bit longer.

“I am Anya,” you look at the warrior now, her gaze soft despite the ferociousness of her warpaint that adorns her face, her eyes fierce and predatory in the night, the fire dancing wickedly with each way her eyes move as they search your face, “Gustus and I will be your family now,” she whispers, “we will teach you to survive, to lead and to fight, Lexa,” you look up at her then and hold her gaze as you see the determined glint laid bare for you to see, “Come, it is late and we have far to travel before we arrive at Polis,” she beckons you then, takes your hand in hers and squeezes it softly, and so you too squeeze hers as she leads you to a tent, a man — Gustus —already standing guard outside, “he will stay outside Lexa, call him if you need anything,” 

Before you allow sleep’s gently caress to take you, your head heavy on the pillow, the furs warm and unfamiliar in their embrace you think of Cleo and you think that Gustus could not bring you who you really need.

 

* * *

 

Polis is overwhelming on your first arrival, the streets a cacophony of sounds and a mosaic  of colours you have never glimpsed before, you didn’t know how to handle it, how to process what you are seeing and so you stare in awe, transfixed by what your eyes see and you think for just a brief moment that _she_ would have loved to see this, would have loved to be here with you. And you feel the pain slowly creep in again but you force yourself to push it aside, to be strong in the moment. 

The crowds part for the war band that carries you towards a tower that stands, a lone pillar looking out onto the sprawling city that is Polis and you are enraptured, have never seen anything larger than the trees near your village. But your revelry is broken when you are quickly guided inside, the steady presence of Gustus always behind you. You are given a change of clothes, their colour dark and and their movements stiff and much too large for your small body. 

You are shown into a small room, a single bed draped in warm furs and a lone candle already lit, melting onto the surface of a rough worn table that sits quietly against the far wall. 

“This is now your home,” Gustus says, “now rest, your lessons begin tomorrow,” and then he leaves you, alone and isolated, unsure and disquieted by what has happened to you.

 

* * *

 

 _Natblida_ you have heard that word over and over again in the first weeks of your arrival — you have given up trying to correct those that call you that, always insisting that you are _Lexa_ but they merely smile warmly at you, only to call you it once again the next time you had seen them.  

The first weeks of your stay at Polis had been brutal, agony a constant companion. You find that there are others with you, some near your age, all wide eyed, afraid and unsure in their new environment. You are given lessons that you can not even comprehend — all that is required is for you and the other children to hold a knife, not much longer than your arm, but you have been told to hold it out at arms length until your arms waver and your muscles screaming. One child, a boy, face freckled and eyes wide in fear had lowered his arm only slightly before a sharp prod in his back had _encouraged_ him to lift it once again and you had turned to see a man standing behind him, a heavy scar through his cheek, eyes hard and intelligent, but a kindness had lingered just below the surface when he had whispered to the boy before stepping back once more. 

You had looked to Anya behind you, herself looking at you, gaze steady and determined, a glinting edge to them that made you lips quiver, and your vision blur with a wetness that you had become far too accustomed to in your short time, but she had whispered quietly _do not allow your arm to waver Lexa, you must be stronger than the others._ And so you had struggled, had cried out and had kept your arm out, if only to avoid a harsh blow to your own back. 

You had seen others too, older, stronger and more warrior than child and you had seen a man, a pauldron resting on his shoulder and the red of his sash flowing easily around him who had instructed these older children, you had watched as his stern gaze had shifted from face to face, had corrected them in words you could not yet understand, could not yet even voice yourself and you had stared wide eyed as he had struck a girl — perhaps the youngest of her class — across the face hard when she had spoken out of turn, had dared to voice a thought not to his liking. 

 

* * *

 

Your lessons continue to become more brutal, more violent with each passing season, often you finish your days with your nose bloodied, or a new bruise forming across your face. The other _natblida_ children with you often times in a similar state to you, Anya or Gustus always a constant companion as they push you through different exercises, never allowing you to waver for long even when your legs buckle, your arms screaming and your lungs burning as you try to complete whatever task you have been forced through. 

Your afternoons are dominated by Titus, stern faced, his voice a constant, droning hum as he speaks of _having the blood_ of being commander and of the virtues of leading but you have never been able to fully grasp the words he says, the stories he tells. You just want to survive another day, to be able to crawl into bed and to be able to forget, just for a moment that you are not where you want to be, not with who you want to be with. And so your nights are spent with a constant, hollow ache in your chest as you fight to muffle the sobs that wrack your body at the loss of everything you have known.

 

* * *

 

The first day you are allowed onto the training grounds is at the height of summer, the sun searing your face, sweat already blossoming across your brow. You and the other children are lined up in front of those older than you, and you stare up at them, you look into their faces and you can see the years of brutal training they have undergone and have endured — you can see the scars, the broken noses, the eyes swollen shut and you can see it in their gazes and for perhaps the first time in months you feel not just loneliness and isolation but also true despair at not be able to run, to flee and to seek shelter from all that surrounds you, to avoid what so clearly is waiting for you. 

You’re handed a staff, far, far too large for your small body and the girl you had seen struck across the face your first week here now stands before you, a staff resting comfortably in her own hands. She looks at you then, contemplation clear in her eyes, she studies you for a long moment before stepping forward, taking your hands in hers before she spreads your grip on the staff, your hands further apart, “What is your name little Natblida,” she asked, a soft smile on her face, and despite the ugly bruises that litter her cheek, you can’t help but think her beautiful — or as beautiful you could think of someone as an eight year old.

“Lexa,” you reply, your gaze steady and she nods as she takes a step back and lowering herself into a steady stance her own staff held out before her. 

“I am Costia,” She says warmly, before she advances on you, and it takes everything you can to avoid being struck by her staff as she twirls it about herself easily.

 

* * *

 

You’re nine now, and as often as you find yourself on the training ground partnered with a different natblida each time, a new weapon in hand almost each lesson, you also find yourself out in the surrounding forest with Anya and Gustus always by your side. Anya has begun to instruct you in how to survive, how to live off the ground and how to attack from the trees, often times Gustus as your unfortunate target. 

It is how you find yourself now, quietly moving through the trees, Anya close behind you as you track Gustus, himself moving silently through the undergrowth not far from where you perched yourself in the trees overhead. It’s simple, all you have to do is fall onto Gustus’ back for you to succeed, and if not, you are sure Anya would be more than willing to chase you through the trees until your legs aren’t unable to carry you any further. 

You turn back to her slowly, careful not to disturb the branches around you and you look to her, eyebrows raised in question but she merely shrugs. So you wait, you will your breathing to slow, to even out and you force your tense body to relax. You creep your way forward, your eyes glued to Gustus as he surveys the trees above him, and you pause, you look down at his broad shoulders, his back to you and so you take one more breath, steel yourself and then drop…

You drop hard and fast, your hands reaching out to grasp him around the head your hand poised to simulate a brutal slice through his throat and for just one split second a smile tugs at your lips before Gustus leans back just slightly but enough to cause you to miss and he catches you and wraps you in a firm hold, his arms crushing you to his chest, the breath in your lungs wheezing out ever so painfully.

“I heard the breath you took,” he laughs loudly as you struggle from his grasp, dread already colouring your face as you know Anya will make you suffer some inventive punishment. Gustus lowers you to the ground with a ruffle of your hair, and you feel Anya drop from where she had perched herself and you turn to her, her eyes already glinting in the waning light. You know what that means — you’ve come to dread the smirk that spreads across her face, you know the words she will utter and _run,_ is all she needs to say before you turn and sprint, hoping that you will make it to your camp fire before she can catch you lest she punish you further for failing to complete her tasks.

You aren’t so lucky and are forced to climb a tree blindly, cloth wrapped tightly around your eyes, touch the only companion on this suicidal endeavour with Anya’s words of _trust in yourself_ ringing through your mind. And when you had released your hold on the branch, thinking you were only feet above the ground, only to find that you had in fact only made it two thirds of the way down the tree she had merely laughed and hurled you to your feet, your bones aching and your behind smarting.

 

* * *

 

You sit now before the fire, the cool of the night chilling your tired bones, and you look to Anya as she sharpens her blade, the low whistle of the whetstone ringing out softly joining the song of the forest around you.   

“Anya,” you pause, taking a shallow breath unsure of how to voice the questions that exist in your mind, you look at her again and so you ask, “Why am I here?” you think you know already though, you’ve seen the way the others in Polis look to you, you’ve seen the way the guards are careful around you and the other natblida children and how even the older natblida carry themselves.

“You are a natblida, Lexa,” Anya looks at you, her gaze softening only slightly, “When the Commander dies, his successor will be chosen from those that he trains,” she pauses, then and moves to sit besides you, and you think of the other, older natblida and how they have had years more training already, of how they have suffered broken bones, and violent beatings yet still stand and you feel worry begin to spread, your heart beating faster, more frantically in your chest, “You will not have to fight in the next conclave until you are older,” Anya says softly, interrupting your quickly spiralling worries, “it would not be wise to throw you and the other, younger natblida into a conclave when you have not learnt what it means to be commander yet,” you look at her quizzically then, and you try to remember the teachings that Titus has given, of what it means to have the blood and the responsibilities that come with it, but for all your struggling you can not recall them, and you think that perhaps you should pay attention next time, “To be commander, Lexa, is to rule those under your command,” Anya continues, “To be fair and just, but to be ruthless when needed. You must be strong too, Lexa, and you must not be afraid to fight when you are needed to.”

“But why must the others die?” you ask, uncertainty creasing your brow.

“Only the strongest can be chosen as Heda,” 

 

* * *

 

You’re ten when the Commander leaves to fight a brutal campaign against Azgeda as they move on floukru lands, and the older natblida, some nearing adulthood walk the tower halls, quiet and lost in their own thoughts as the days pass. You hear word from the scouts that come and go that battles are fought, some are won with few casualties, and some are lost, the numbers unknown, but all the while your days are spent the same, you train in the mornings before it is too hot outside, and when you are partnered with the older natblida, Costia often times your partner, you can forget for just a moment that you will have to one day fight those around you. But when the sun beats down too strong you are allowed a quiet respite for just a moment. It is a moment like this that you find yourself sitting by the shade of a tree, Costia by your side. 

“How long have you been here?” you ask, you’d never broached this topic of discussion, never really contemplated it but you can’t help but wonder why she was with the older natblida when she doesn’t look much older than you are.

“I was brought here when I was not even two,” she says and you think it should be tinted by sadness, or any emotion, of anger at not having been allowed to live, if only for a moment as a child, but to you it seems cold, distant, lacking any real warmth at all, “I have grown up a natblida,” she continues, wiping a loose strand of hair from her brow before turning to you, “I have been here as long as you are old, Lexa,” and she casts her eyes to the sky, and you see the blue of it reflected in her eyes, and for just a moment you feel your heart flutter in your chest, “I know I am younger than the others,” she says then, and you can’t help but to recognise a sad acceptance in her eyes — it surprises you then, overwhelms you, makes you want to reach out and take her hand — so you do, and you squeeze it softly, and she smiles at you, “it is ok, Lexa,” and she pauses to take a breath and holds it for a long quiet moment before she breathes out softly, “to be commander is to accept that one day our fight will end.”  

 

* * *

 

The searing sun has faded into the cold, biting winds of a soon to be winter, the training grounds a constant muddy, evil opponent that to your tiring legs seems intent on making you lose your footing. You’ve grown stronger in the years that you have stayed in Polis, training as a natblida, Anya and Gustus constantly devising new and inventive ways for you to either succeed in killing one of them in mock battles, or for you to be chased through the forest in an attempt to avoid Anya in all her smirking ferocity — you think Anya just might like causing you to fear for your life just a bit too much for your own good. You’ve found that you are capable with a sword, and when Anya sees fit to introduce a second into your training you are grateful that they aren’t sharp for you would have sliced your belly open the first lesson you had had with her. Anya teaches you to attack with a ferocity and violence that reminds you of the stories you had heard, of the pauna that prowled the forests and that would snatch unsuspecting victims from where they stood, she teaches you how to be deadly in speed, using your smaller stature to your advantage, and Gustus teaches you to attack and defend against opponents much larger and stronger than you are, always a kind word and a small treat hidden in the palm of his hand after the long training sessions — you think you prefer Gustus’ methods but you wouldn’t dare voice that aloud anywhere near Anya. You see the other natblida on the training grounds too, their own instructors imparting their own knowledge, ensuring that when the time comes, they will have the skills necessary to survive what none of you have voiced. You are all often pit against each other in mock battles, sometimes one on one, or one against multiple opponents and even a free for all. 

You find yourself now in one such battle, you face off against three opponents as they try to circle you, Costia stands by your side, her staff held firmly in her hands, the two blades comfortably in yours. You see the attack from one of the older natblida come in a violent, rapid strike, he kicks up mud to distract you both before a second natblida — this one from your own class lunges in to attack. But you block it, already moving to attack the third, your second blade whistling through the air as you swing and spin under an outstretched arm. Costia moves besides you, a snarl on her face as she spins quickly, the ends of her staff a blur and she attacks, defending your back while you attack the third natblida. You think you can lose yourself into this easy rhythm, Costia by your side, both of you attacking and defending each other as you move, and you can’t help but to smile as you catch her eye for a moment, and you think that in this instant, her hair swept back, loose strands plastered across her face red from exertion and her jaw clenched in concentration that she is beauti—

You see her eyes widen just a fraction and you soon feel the blow across your legs as they are lifted up into the air, your arms flailing out by your sides and then you land with a sickening crunch and you feel the pain explode through your wrist as you land heavily on your left arm.

Costia is by your side in an instant, all thought of the other three nablida ignored as she wraps you in her arms. And you fall into her embrace for a moment as the pain begins to sink in and your eyes water with tears, pained whimpers falling from you. You think you even hear the natblida who had struck you cursing quietly, a rushed _I am so sorry Lexa_ escaping his lips before you see Anya towering over you, a hard glare pointed directly your way,

“Get up, we are going to the healers,” She growls out before she turns leaving you to struggle to your feet.

“It’s ok,” you smile —though you think it comes out more a grimace of pain— at Costia, “Anya will break my other arm if I do not follow her,” you try and joke, anything to wipe the worry from Costia’s face. And so you smile at her once more before you turn, your wrist cradled gently against your chest and you follow Anya’s retreating back but before you leave the training grounds you look over your shoulder briefly to see Costia still standing there, and your eyes meet for a brief moment and she smiles softly before you turn back and rush to catch Anya. 

 

* * *

 

“Will she heal?” Anya is pacing back and forth besides you as the healer inspects your wrist, already wrapped firmly a splint holding it straight, 

“Yes she will heal, but she will not be able to train for 3 moons,” and the healer levels a stern gaze directly at Anya, “And I will know if you make her, natblida or not, she must heal,” Anya glowers harder at the healer, but to your surprised she bows her head, nodding in consent after a tense moment.

With the healer gone Anya gracelessly puts herself into a chair besides your bed and levels you with a pointed look, her eyes sharp and calculating as they scan across your face, “You must be more careful,” and you take a breath, swallow the lump in your throat before you answer,

“It was not my fault,” you protest weakly, “there were three, I was only trying to protect Costia’s back,” you finish, your chin lifted in defiance.

“That’s not what I am talking about,” she pauses, fingers resting on her temples before she exhales loudly, “you were never supposed to win, especially with Costia your fighting partner and Joden as an adversary,” and you stare at Anya now, unsure of what she means, “You must be more careful _with_ _Costia_ ,” You stare blankly at Anya now, confusion colouring your eyes.

You think for a moment before you open your mouth to retort, to voice anything, but Anya cuts you off with a harsh glare and a flick on your forehead, “No, you must listen Lexa, you are both natblida,” she pauses again and lets you think for a moment, “you can not become attached to each other, not in this way, and not. In. Public,” she finishes gesturing awkwardly at you. You aren’t quite sure what Anya means by _not in this way_ but you can’t help but to think that it so very unfair.

Anya leaves you to rest sometime later, her face still holding a glare. You can see the light from outside has dimmed and you can smell the smoke of the torches as they are lit around the city. Your thoughts drift to Costia then, and you mull over what Anya could have meant

_not in this way_

You’re turning the words over in your head when you hear a faint knock on the door and so you call out a soft _come in._ The door opens quietly, revealing Costia, dressed in her usual black clothing that natblidas must wear, but her hair falls softly to her shoulders, framing her face in an orange lit glow from the fires that burn by the entrance. She approaches you quietly, steps tentative and unsure before her feet carry her to the side of where you lay and you motion for her to sit in the chair,

“I heard you won’t be able to train for a while,” she finally says, breaking the quiet comfort that hangs around you both, “Anya yelled at Joden, told him if he ever broke your arm again she would kick him from the top of the tower,” you smile softly at that, eyes catching Costia’s, the fire dancing hypnotically in them, “Does it hurt?” Costia gestures to your arm then, a sheepish smile gracing her lips,

“No,” you lie — it hurts a lot.

“Oh,” she smiles wickedly at you then, before reaching over you to grab your wrist but you gasp, quickly rolling over to protect your arm from her grasp, “you lied,” 

“maybe it hurts — a bit,” you bite your lip softly and gaze into her eyes,

_not in this way_

“Thank you,” she whispers, “for protecting my back,” she finishes before gently leaning forward and kissing you softly on the cheek. She stands then, casts a lingering look your way before she exits.

 _oh_ , you think, _in that way._

 

* * *

 

You’re ten, almost eleven when word comes that the commander has died. He had ended the fighting between Azgeda and Floukru, having killed the ruling Azgeda king in combat, only to have been mortally wounded himself. His body was returned to polis not long after, a procession of warriors following the horse led cart, his body resting atop, the red sash wrapped firmly around his body, and his pauldron sitting atop his chest. You feel the change in the tower too, the older class of natblida no longer looking at each other, no longer smiling or sharing kind words and you look for Costia throughout all of this, hoping to catch her eyes, if only to reassure her that it would be ok — if only to reassure _yourself_ that she would be ok, but each time you had passed her, had thought she would speak to you she would cast her eyes downwards and quickly walk past you, leaving an emptiness in your chest that ached and a pain lingering in your heart that you had really only felt almost six years before. 

You sit by the small candle in your room, the light the only thing allowing you to see through the darkness that you feel swallows you whole. All the natblidas had been sent to their rooms for the night, the conclave to select the next commander set for tomorrow at dawn and you feel your stomach churn and twist into knots. You worry your lip and stare into the burning flame, trying to control your unsteady breathing and the frantic beating of your heart. You feel the tears pool in the corner of your eyes, and your chest begins to heave ever so slightly 

W _hy? Why hadn’t she spoken to you, hadn’t even met your eyes one last time?_

You want to scream and shake the cage you feel closing around you, to break free from this torment. and it’s unfair you think, so, so unfair that even the ones who everyone knows are not the strongest must still fight, must still die.

You sit then, in an angry silence until you hear the quietest of knocks against your door, and you hear your name whispered faintly… Costia's voice

You jump from your chair and fling the door open _Costia!_ you wrap your arms around her and tug her into your room, casting a worried glance behind her, 

“Costia, what are you doing here?” your questions come rapid, one after the other, “it’s not safe, they will punish you! You have the conclave!” you pause… “You have the conclave…” you feel the tears begin to fall and you can’t help them, can’t hold them back and you cling to her harder

_She has the conclave_

“Shhh… Lexa, it’s ok,” she whispers quietly, her face buried in your hair, “it’s ok,” she repeats, “I need to tell you something,” she pauses and holds you at arms length, and you now notice that she wears a cloak, warm furs lining the collar and a large hood hanging from her neck

“Costia?” your voice quivers, 

“I’m leaving,” she whispers, her hands cradling your face, and you lean into her touch softly, “I know you can’t come with me, but I’m going to the east, to floukru, they will keep me safe, they will hide me,” she finishes, a dazzling smile gracing her lips and she doesn’t say it, but you think you hear it in the way her eyes shine, 

_I will wait for you._

So you nod, and smile at her in turn, and you hug her close, tangle your hands in her hair and breathe her in just one more time, “Stay safe,” you whisper, “I will see you again.” 

And she smiles just one last time, kisses your cheek and then she flees into the night.

_You never see her alive again._

 

* * *

_The afternoon sun hangs heavy over a quiet city, the training grounds black with the blood of the natblida who had fallen before their brothers and sisters._  

_A new commander has taken the flame._


	3. Chapter 3

 

You’re used to the constant aching of your bones and the stinging of the cuts that litter your body. You think you’ve broken your nose twice already, and your wrist still throbs just a little bit when you hold a weapon, but this physical pain does nothing to prepare you for what you feel now as you stare into the pyres, their flames carrying away the spirits of the fallen natblida. You feel the tense silence linger, suffocating and oppressive as it pushes down on you and the younger natblidas surrounding you. 

You stare long into the flame, willing it to burn away the visions that you now feel will forever linger just at the edge of your vision, always swimming just out of reach, just a slight mirage in the periphery of your vision that you can not quite see, but it is there — you think it will always be there now.

Joden is now the commander, his battered, bruise and broken body carried away, Titus whispering words only meant for the Commander’s spirit to hear. Your heart breaks for him, you had seen his eyes as he had pierced the hearts of his natblida brothers and sisters, had slit the throat of one, leaving behind a gruesome jagged cut and the retching of life being left behind. You had seen him behead his closest friend, her head rolling to the ground, only to halt at his feet, the last of the natblida having fallen. You feel the weight of it all bearing down on you now, and you think for the first time, that you really understand what it means to be a natblida, to one day have to fight to become the Commander — to have to put the duty of your people first, to be the strongest to lead them, putting aside your personal wishes. And your thoughts go to Costia, you think she must be far away by now, and you think of Titus and how he had raged at the guards, had cursed Costia and had called her a traitor to the blood. But you don’t care, you are happy that she did not have to suffer, did not have to fight and kill her brothers and sisters, and did not have to fall to Joden. And all his pain? One day it will be yours you think.

 

* * *

 

Titus comes to you a week after the conclave, he opens the door and steps into your room, his face stern, eyes hard and he sits in the sole chair in your room. He looks at you, his eyes searching yours and you think you know what he will ask, what he will say and you think you already know how you will respond.  

His gaze softens only slightly as he sees the yellow bruise covering your cheek, the cut across your chin that still oozes black, “You train well, Lexa,” he breaks the silence quietly yet his voice carries through the small room, “you may one day be Commander,” he finishes and you can do nothing but nod your head softly at the praise — though not warm, and far from fatherly, you can’t help but to recognise that Titus cares for all the natblida under his care, even if he would never show it openly. You avert your eyes, looking to the flooring at your feet and your eyes trace the worn crack that snakes its way under your bed, but he again breaks the silence, a single name uttered that has you looking to him and his eyes a hard now, a fire in them that makes you flinch just briefly, but just enough for him to latch on and to dive forward, 

“Costia,” He pauses, moves the chair closer to you, “You were close with her,” and you nod, there is no point denying it — not when everyone had seen you two often together at the edge of the training ground when you were given small reprieves from the violence of your life, “you do her no justice to deny that you know where she went,” he continues and you look up at him, surprise in your eyes before you can hide it and you know he sees it, you know he feels it, “she will be hunted for the rest of her life. She will be killed one day, whether it is by the order of the flame for her betrayal or by another clan who wishes to know the secrets of the Commander,” and you know it to be true, any clan would benefit greatly from having access to any knowledge, no matter how small that is passed from Commander to the natblida under him or her — and isn’t that why the order of the flame is willing to kill any that flee? isn’t that why all other natblida must die? An idea takes hold in your mind then, one that you think foolish, childish and fuelled by emotion, and you know you should quash it before it can really grow its roots into the very soul of your being but yet you can’t help but to embrace it if only to spare her a life of suffering.

“I will be the next commander,” you say, your voice firm despite the frantic beat of your heart, “I will unite the clans,” _for her, to keep her safe._ You look into his eyes then, and you see the surprise in them at your proclamation but you think you also see something else, something barely there just a flash of emotion, of a thought, but it’s gone, hidden behind the carefully constructed mask that he wears so often. 

 

* * *

 

You’re fourteen, you are able to defeat opponents much larger than you with the two blades you wield in both your hands, you are able to move through the trees as silently as the pauna that attack their prey. You are the raging storm, the biting wind and the flooding storms and you are not afraid. Not afraid when the reaper turns to face you, his bloodied nose bent and broken and smashed beyond recognition, the red of his eyes a bloody flame that engulfs his very spirit and when he lunges at you, you are ready, your heart beats steadily in your chest and you twist and turn and slice your blades through his flesh, you impale his torso before removing his head from where it sits on his shoulders before you turn to see Anya and Gustus already moving to attack the last of the reapers, the other members of your small warband engaged in their own struggle to ward off death for another night. 

You and the older natblida had been sent out to the areas surrounding the Mountain to gain experience in killing those which are not quite living, who do not feel pain and who do not fight with sensibility borne from one who wishes to survive another day. Each of you had been given command of a small warband of warriors and given the task of clearing the surrounding forest of reapers. You had been ordered to clear the forests further south of the Mountain, to help the smaller villages. You hadn’t noticed at first as you had moved through the forests but each tree you passed began to look more and more familiar, an uneasiness sitting low in your stomach, the distant memory of your name being called and of a sister you could only remember in faint, murky detail. 

The third ambush you set up on the roaming reapers had come from the trees. You had waited, poised and ready until the reapers had stopped underneath you, had sensed your deathly shadow and then you had dropped, and had attacked with a ferocity and speed honed from years of training. 

You wipe your blade clean after the last reaper has fallen at your feet, and you look around at the warriors surrounding you, and you whisper a quiet thanks to yourself when all are accounted for, none injured so far, “Natblida Lexa, I recognise the tattoos these reapers wear,” a warrior says then, breaking your moment of introspectiveness, as he inspects a reaper at his feet, the green of his clothing having faded and dirtied, “they are from a village not far, further south from where we are,” he continues before looking up at you, a question in his eyes, and you nod before giving the order to collect the reapers that can be identified. You begin to scan the area then, to make sure you won’t be surprised by any other reapers when you realise, in this moment why the surrounding trees look so familiar, and you remember almost falling before being embraced in a net of safety and green eyes looking into yours, and you think for just a brief second before steeling yourself,

_Cleo_

 

* * *

Arriving at the village is a bittersweet affair, you feel your heart beat a bit faster, its cadence a mind of its own, your grip a bit less firm on the reins of your horse and you can’t help but to shift your gaze around, a constant spotlight in your search for her face. The villagers greet you with surprise etched into their face, and you can’t help but think that the village is much smaller than you remembered as you look around you at the village centre. Anya looks to you then, her face passive but you see Gustus too, his expression more open, worry clear in his eyes for you to see and so you give him a tight smile and you force your shoulders back and you feel the mask of the natblida settle over your face as you dismount your horse.  

You’re greeted by the village chief, face weathered from years on the ground, but eyes kind and warm as he takes in your warband. You motion to the slain reapers, that your warriors lay on the ground carefully, recognition in the man’s eyes before he bows his head and murmurs words of thanks before excusing himself to inform the families. You look around you now, and try to remember what had once been your home, you try to picture anything, a house, a tree that could jolt your memory back if just for a moment and you wish that perhaps you had been older, had had longer to remember the life you were not meant to have, but then you hear it, a softness to her voice and you think you feel your lips quirk up into a small smile for just a moment before you turn, your arms heavy by your sides, your heart more unsteady in its rhythm than it has been in years and you fight to maintain the mask that is expected of a natblida.

“Natblida Lexa,” it’s careful, respectful, but there’s a shining to her eyes though , her hands clutched tightly in front of her — and you can see the strain in them, the desire to reach out and embrace what is in front of her, and you see the longing in her eyes, the emotion that is there plainly for you to see — you take her in then, the sides of her head shaved close to her scalp, her hair tied back in firm braids, a freshly applied tattoo not days old adorning her scalp and you can’t help but to think she looks well, but despite the raging emotions that threaten to break you, you are a natblida.

“Cleo,” it comes out stilted, unfamiliar on your tongue and you hold out your arm in greeting, and you can’t help but to see the disappointment, the hurt and the loss that flashes across her face and you think she is all that you can not be, all that you could have been, of life lived well, of laughter and a freedom and you can’t help but to feel a spark of jealousy deep down in the pit of your stomach before you force it away and bury it. You raise your chin then, “you look well,” it’s a simple greeting, _safe_ you think, and you see her eyes fall, her head bow slightly and you think you see a sheen to her eyes before she blinks and looks at you then, and nods her head once, “I am not staying long,” you eventually say, an awkwardness hanging heavily on your shoulders,

“I did not think you would be able to,” she says then, her head turned to the side, unwilling to look upon what you have become, what she has lost and you don’t blame her, and it hurts you think, and it is unfair and unkind but you know your duty, and to have family is not one of them and so you steel yourself, look at her once more, before replying, a finality to your short, stilted exchange

“It has been nice seeing you,” and then you turn, already moving back to your horse. Your warriors already atop theirs when Anya moves closer to you, whispered words of worry for only your ears to hear and you merely nod your head and steel your emotions once more before riding out from the village, but you can’t help but let your eyes linger on the fallen reapers and you see a girl, no older than five as she cradles one of the dead in her small hands, tears running down her face and the green of his faded tunic clutched tightly in her hand and so you leave the village with thoughts of your own parents, your mother taken from you in clan fighting, of how Costia will never be allowed to live in peace while clans seek out the traitorous natblida and you think that you will be the next commander, you will unite the clans, if only to stop families being ripped apart, if only to save Costia. And you think of the mountain and how it had stolen your father from you before you even had a chance to know him and you think of the reapers you have killed today, had slashed open with a violence that none should have to face and you think of that small child, the red of her hair glinting in the sunlight as she mourned the loss of a father she will never see again and you think that you too will bring the coalition together if only to destroy the mountain, if only to stop other families from being torn apart. 

 

* * *

 

You’re almost sixteen when Joden leaves, reports of more reapers having spread throughout the area surrounding the mountain but your training doesn’t end, if anything it increases in brutality, in violence and you can’t help but feel a familiar twisting in your stomach and you think you know what will come next and so you ignore the pain that you feel in your body, the bruises that paint your skin, and the blood that drips and dries, wrapping your body in a deathly grey in the waning sunlight. You fight often with Luna and her twin brother, both having been born with the blood, and you can’t help but feel a stab of worry when Luna spins her blade just a moment faster and you feel it cut into your forearm before you’re moving on her, your own two swords held comfortably in your hands, the black of the blood dripping down your arm. You think that only Luna could really challenge your place as Commander, she is fierce in battle, swift and deadly, but you think she lacks the will to do things that must bedone, to sacrifice those that must be sacrificed when they are needed to, and you think of how she protects her brother in the mock battles you are pitted against, and you think of how she is willing to take the hits for him and you think her weak in these moments. But aren’t you weak too? Aren’t you willing to do what no one has done before all for a girl you have not seen in years? Of a promised life that you wouldn’t even be allowed to have? 

You think yourself a hypocrite. 

Titus watches all of you while Joden is away, he continues to teach you the pillars of a commander, the things that a commander must sacrifice and he teaches you above all else that a commander must be alone, must not have others that distract, and you can’t help but think his gaze lingers for brief moments on you as those words fall from his lips and you think of Costia in those times, but you know he can not read your face, can not see past the mask that you have constructed, that cages you from the outside and that hides your intentions and so you level your chin, defiant and steadfast.

It is the quiet of the nights though, that you let your thoughts drift away from the carefully constructed boundaries that guide your waking moments, you dream of Costia, the way her hair falls and you imagine what she must look like now, fully an adult now and you can’t help but smile to yourself and think she must look beautiful, and you think it will be good when you have united the clans, have made the world a safer place and when you tell her she can return to Polis you think she will fall into your arms, freely able to do so and you think you would be happy — you think you will be happy and so those thoughts carry you through the lonely nights alone in your bed as you wait, and wait and prepare, your own conclave an ever present spectre that looms over your shoulder and whispers out to you in the recesses of your mind.

 

* * *

 

You’re sixteen when word comes from exhausted scouts that Heda Joden has fallen, having held the rear of his warband to protect them from a horde of reapers that had attacked a village to the west of Trikru lands, word spreads of his heroics and how he had died a commander’s death but the tower and the natblida you live with don’t celebrate, don’t share the enthusiasm of what the city is feeling in this moment. And when you pass each other in the long hallways you avert your eyes, never looking too long, never letting yourselves to feel. You all know what is coming next, most of you saw it in the previous conclave. And you feel the steady beat of your heart, you feel the thoughts that whisper in the back of your mind and you feel the confidence in your stride and the strength in your limbs as you continue to train, continue to fight harder and faster and stronger than you have ever done so before — all the while waiting for Joden’s body to be returned so that the conclave can commence. 

 

* * *

 

His body is returned three days later, wrapped in the red of his sash, his pauldron resting atop his chest and you look down on the procession from the main gates of Polis until it reaches the tower. The other natblida old enough to fight in this conclave watch by your side, even some of the younger ones have come to watch. You think you feel it in this moment though, the way your heart steadies even further, your breathing controlled and you think you are ready, that you are not afraid and you hear Anya’s words filter through your mind as you look to the natblida around you, many lost in their own thoughts just as you are now, and you hear Anya’s words of _focus on what is in front of you only, do not think about tomorrow or the day after_ and you think of Gustus and how he had taught you how to move through enemies larger than yourself, of how he had taught you to hold your breath lest you give away your position, and you think of Anya and how she made sure you could hold a weapon even if your arms were unable, you think of how they had taught you to trust in yourself, in your own judgement. But above all you think of Costia and the life you did not have the time to experience and you think of the life you may one day have. If only you become commander.    

 

* * *

 

A deathly silence hangs heavy over the city at dawn, you think it shattering in its intensity, torches light a path from the tower to the training grounds, and memories of the ground running black from the blood of the natblida that had fallen move to the forefront of your mind, you remember the limbs that had been torn from bodies, of the cries of pain as brothers and sisters had killed each other and you remember the look in Joden’s eyes as he had realised he was the sole natblida standing. And for the first time in your life you feel truly afraid, not for yourself but for those around you, you feel your heart beat faster, you feel your breath come in just a bit too fast and you struggle and fight to control it, but it’s the steady rolling thunder in the distance that echoes off the mountains, it’s the harsh downpour of a winter storm and you think yourself floating atop it all, that you must harness it, must control it, must be alive in this moment if only so that you can find yourself living the next day. You turn to Luna then, her eyes closed tightly, her hand holding her brothers ever so tightly, and you catch his eyes, a small smile gracing your lips. And in this moment you think yourself the moments between heartbeats, and what comes next will either bring you life or you will fade into the nothingness that is death, a mere drop in the river of time that you find yourself in.  

And so you breathe in just once more and close your eyes and steady your beating heart, and as the gates open in front of you, bathing you all in the brilliance of the morning light you let it out.

 

* * *

 

You stare into the burning pyres, the red of the flame searing into your mind, whispers of the dead a constant hymn that sing to you from the recesses of your consciousness. You think you see the dead in the wisps of the black smoke that rises and twists and turns in all its disgusting glory, the acrid smell of death filling your nostrils. And you embrace it, you let it seep into the very pores of your body, let it consume you and when you breathe out you think you have stood here, in this very spot over and over again, you think you remember it, and when you think back to all those moments you feel the itch, the constant annoying buzz in the back of your neck where you had received the spirit of the commander and when you concentrate on it you think you hear it whisper your name, binding you to it and you think you could lose yourself in it, let it take you where it wills you to go and you think that perhaps you are not just Lexa anymore, not even Commander Lexa, but _Lexa and Heda._

 

* * *

 

You don’t know how long you stand there, the sun having set on the grounds, the moon light reflecting the blood that soaks into the very earth you stand upon, a pool of death at your feet that you think would swallow you up if you let it. The pyres mere smouldering embers now, but still, you ignore the ever present pain that lingers in your body, you feel the cut on your thigh of an axe that had almost taken your footing from you, you feel the broken finger that had been caught in the downward strike of a staff almost breaking your hand and you feel the hollow, empty beat of your heart, each one a constant reminder of what it means to be a natblida — to be commander, and isn’t this now what Titus meant? To be commander is to be alone, no other there to shoulder the burden, to share in the suffering? Perhaps you were too naive, too childish to comprehend what it meant to be commander. But now there is no other option, no other way but forward, and so it is with one last hollow gaze that you look upon the dead and then you turn, the demons of your actions never far from your sight, a constant looming darkness that threatens to consume you if only you’d let it.

 

* * *

 

You’re eighteen. And you think back to when you had told your advisors that you were to unite the 12 clans under one banner and they had scoffed, had thought you foolish, and dismissed it as wishful thinking until you had levelled a glare honed from lifetimes of use at them and they had wilted and shrunk under its intensity.  

And so you had travelled, first to Trishana and Yujleda who had both happily accepted leadership under your coalition and that was to be expected, you were all people of the forests you thought. The other clans had been harder to convince, often requiring brutal and violent attacks to solve disputes when diplomacy had failed and you had thrived on it, had bled for it, had fought and almost lost your life countless times for it, but in the recesses of your mind you had always thought of Costia and in turn you had always heard ever so faintly, ever so softly 

_To be commander is to be alone_

But you had ignored it for surely if you were succeeding in doing what no other had done before you, all for the hope of a better future, that to be commander was to not be alone? And so you had continued on your swift campaign, Louwoda Kliron had accepted your conditions with little bloodshed, only a foolish general daring to question your age in the middle of a heated discussion before you had beheaded him in single combat, only a slight cut to your forearm to show for your exertion. Boudalan and Ouskejon had been harder to convince if only for the fact that travelling their mountainous and rocky terrain had proven difficult for your warriors, ever familiar with the trees but not much else. Delfikru had been willing to join the coalition once you had threatened to cut off trade if they did not fall under your banner and it had taken a lot of convincing that you would actually allow trade to be freer under the coalition if they joined and you think with a grimace that Titus would have handled the situation better had he been here once you had almost talked yourself into a corner about trade routes and agreements.

The real bloodshed had come when you tried to convince Podakru and Ingranrona, both clans less friendly with Trikru than the others. Discussions had fallen through almost instantly, leaving you to fight your way out of their war camp, a seething Anya by your side cursing your stupidity (albeit under her breath for you were Heda now) at allowing the discussions to be held in their war camp — but it was a necessary concession — and you had merely stated that it was good practice for your guards who had not had the opportunity to really test their skills in a year. Gustus had merely grunted his disapproval while removing an arrow shaft from his shoulder he had gained when he had covered you once arrows had started raining down upon you.

Sankru had joined shortly after Ingranrona had conceded, if only because they were much happier that trade would now be able to more freely reach their desert lands and you had been happy to have a thankful ally to the back of Ingranrona and Podakru if only to give them pause should they continue further aggressions. Floukru had joined towards the end and you had asked the clan leader, a familiar young woman with a glint in your eyes that was mirrored in hers as you had discussed trade agreements and you had asked her of a certain other woman and you had been given the response that she had been out fishing in the northern waters with a small band of other Floukru. You had felt disappointment if only for a moment, but you were close, you could feel it in your bones and in the whispered voices that nestled in the recesses of your mind. All that was left was Azgeda and you were prepared, you knew they were ruthless, less likely to want to bow to anyone — they were a proud people, violent because their lands demanded it from them and so you had brought warriors from almost every other clan with you to the border, and you had brought supplies, foods and furs and materials that would not be able to grow in Azgeda lands and you hoped that they would see the benefit if only because the Azgeda people would be able to live more comfortably, with more resources at their disposal. But wishful thinking is for fools and you had found yourself fighting yet again against a brutal foe, and you couldn’t help but feel the whispers in your mind talk of the previous battle the commander had fought against the king of Azgeda, and how he had killed him only to have been mortally wounded himself. And you sometimes feel the slice of the blade as it had punctured his lung and you can remember it clearly as his breath had been swallowed by the blood seeping into his lungs, and you remembered the pain and the sudden rush of thought before he had died. And when you wake, a cold sweat clinging to your body you can’t help but shiver and feel the whispers of death and the phantoms of lost lives moving at the edge of your vision and no matter how hard you try to shake them and to banish them they linger, always there, but never in reach, and you think in these moments, when death seems to cling so carefully to you, and embrace you in its cold, searing embrace that maybe you’ve forgotten just what it feels like to be alive.

 

* * *

 

The Azgeda campaign has raged for a month, losses have been low on both sides, but the fighting has nonetheless been deadly and bloody, you often find yourself in the middle of these battles, Gustus a constant guarding presence by your side, whilst Anya leads any other forces you had. And despite the pain and suffering that you are surrounded by, you feel your heart beating, an excitement thrumming through your veins, and you think you feel it, you think you know that this is the last holdout, the last piece of the puzzle that you have been moving into place for the last two years of your life, of all the close calls you’ve had, missed arrows, poisoned blades and stealthy assassins, you think that it has all led to this moment and so you continue forward, removing the hand from an Azgeda warrior before slicing his throat cleanly, and you continue forward through the carnage beneath you, the snow rich and thick with the blood of the dead and you can feel the Azgeda forces waning as their will slowly crumbles under the coalition warriors they fight against. And when the last of the resistance fades, the warriors laying down their weapons, others on their knees staring into the destruction that has become of their lands you tell them to surrender, to join the coalition and when you see the acceptance in their eyes you turn, and move back to your war camp and wait for their messenger.

 

* * *

 

You sit now, atop your throne of twisted branches and battered steel, word having come that a messenger has arrived to discuss terms of Azgeda’s introduction into the coalition and you can’t help but to feel a perverse sense of satisfaction that after all these years, of the constant ever present spectre that you feel looming over your shoulder that soon you will have completed all that you had set out to do, and you can’t help but to feel a faint spark of hope as it ignites in your chest, barely there but you let it fuel you in this moment, you let it fuel the beating of your heart and the blood that pumps through your veins and you think that in this moment you will be able to look back and to know that to be commander is to not be alone. And so you let the thoughts wash over you as you await the messenger, your knife slowly moving through your fingers and you allow your face to slip back into the role of Heda, stoic and calm, but you let a ferocity linger just beneath the surface, allow it to glint ever so slightly in your eyes and you stare at the entrance of your tent, and wait.

 

* * *

 

You hear Gustus call out a threat, and you hear the rustling of warriors being searched for weapons and you hear the steady ring of blades being withdrawn from sheaths and you hear them dropped to the ground. The flaps to your tent are pulled aside and Gustus steps through, a man following closely behind him, the scars of Azgeda proudly adorning his face and you see two other men carrying a box between them. You turn then, eyes narrowed at the first man and you think you recognise him from a past life, a life where his father had been killed on a battlefield, and where you had felt a blade slipped into your lungs. But you keep your face passive, you keep the glint of your eyes trained solely on him, “Prince Roan of Azgeda,” your voice rings out, a timber you have learnt to master giving it an edge not often heard from one as young as you, “Am I to believe that you have come to surrender Azgeda to coalition rule,” you continue to spin the knife slowly between your fingers, piercing green never leaving his own steady gave, 

“Yes Heda, Lexa,” he bows his head then, his voice gravely and hoarse “it is clear Azgeda would thrive under the coalition,” and you can’t help but think that he is not as foolish as his father — the thought coming to you from the recesses of your mind — before your attention is brought back to him, “My mother, Kwin Nia of Azgeda wishes to deliver you a gift, a token of her friendship, and a show of faith that she believes now that the Coalition will benefit us all” he continues, motioning slowly for the men behind him to bring forward the box, and they place it delicately at your feet.

Your gaze flickers to the box then, and you take it in. You see the cloth that protrudes from where the lid has been shut, you see the dark that has leached into the very weave of the fabric, and you know what that blackness is, you know it, you’ve seen it in your dreams, you’ve seen it in your waking moments and you know. Y _ou know._ And when your hand reaches out, your heart beating erratically and when your fingers close around the clasp that holds what is inside hidden you think you feel tears fill your eyes, you think you feel your heart crumble and break and shatter inside your chest and you think you feel the raging of your mind as it screams out into the void — but above all you hear the whispers of the flame as they grow louder and louder, screaming into your mind.

_To be Commander is to be Alone._

_In everything._

And when you open the lid, when you look inside you think you fall to your knees. You see her face, you see it distorted from pain and suffering, from living longer than anyone should and you see it bloodied and broken, the black of her blood clinging to her grey sickened skin, you see the bruises of her face and you see the jagged cut around her throat and you see the split in her lip and the teeth that are missing and you see the burn marks that decorate her face and you think you scream, you think you cry out and then you are reaching out with a viciousness and a rage that is jagged and broken, and you snare Roan by the throat and drag him to the ground before you with a strength unknown to you before and you squeeze the life from him. You see Gustus already having struck one of the other men across the face, his blade drawn to his throat, and you see your other guards moving to kill the third man and you turn your eyes to Roan, his own widened in shock and you level your blade across his throat,

“He—Heda, is she not—” you squeeze even harder _Her name was Costia_ you roar into his face, “is she— is she not the natblida who fled?” he manages to choke out, your blade digging into the flesh under his jaw. And you see it then, a distant memory, not your own but you _remember_ it,

_Your spear plunged into the King of Azgeda’s chest, his own knife in your lung and you wheeze out a breath and you see the life drain from the King’s face but you hear it, it’s faint and soft and ragged but you hear the King whisper, “She will have her revenge,” before his life fades and he falls back to the bloodied soil and you too, stagger backwards towards your camp, but you never make it, never see it again with your eyes but when your eyes open once again they are no longer yours. A new commander has taken the flame._

And in this moment you know, you see it for what it is, Kwin Nia’s revenge and so you rage, you want to rip Roan’s life from him but you know his mother had sent him to die, to show that she is willing to do anything, that she doesn’t even _care_ and so you strike him hard across the face and you roar for your guards to take them away and you fall to your knees and look down into her sightless eyes once more. And in this moment you think you are the raging of the storm and the coldness of death that has embraced you so any times before and you see the ghosts of the dead that surround you, you feel their whispered warnings and threats and you feel the cold claws tear you apart and you feel the broken sobs that escape you, you feel your chest heave and your shoulders shake and think in this agonising drop of time that you are the moment between heartbeats always waiting for that next beat of life, but for you, for heda, you will never to feel it again.

And you hear it louder now, you hear it raging and you feel the tingle in the back of your neck as it speaks to you,

_To be Commander is to be alone._

_In everything._

_Even success?_ you whisper back into the void, _The coalition, it was all for her._

 

* * *

You’re twenty, and you ride through the southern Trikru lands, you had spent the last year ensuring that the southern clans were well prepared for what you feel to be a harsh coming season. You receive constant reports of the Mountain becoming more aggressive, more daring in their use of reapers and so you ensure that all the clans know that one day soon you will call on them to march on the mountain.  

You arrive at a village that is altogether familiar and you feel a slight pang deep in your chest, but you discard it, recognise weakness for what it is and you dismount, letting your horse be carried away to the stables by a young girl, her hair red and you can’t help but to think her familiar but you discard that too, and you hear it then, it’s loud and firm and so you turn,

“Heda, we have prepared a tent for you,” Cleo looks at you, her eyes guarded but you think you still see it, still see the way her eyes linger for just a moment longer, “will you be staying long?” she finishes,

“No,” you reply, “only long enough to rest for a moment and allow those with me to resupply, we are needed elsewhere,” and so she nods, casts her eyes forwards and guides you to the tent, and just for a moment you think your own eyes linger but you recognise weakness for what it is and you discard it and let _Heda_ sit firmly in place.

That night, as you ride further north you receive a message,

_The sky has fallen._


	4. Chapter 4

You’re surrounded by the most brutal of your warriors, each one of them at home with the viciousness that encompasses you all, you see it in the way their eyes rage, in the way their blades sing when they taste blood. You feel the blood spray across your face as your drag your blade through a Mountain Man’s torso, you hear the pained screams as the air bites into his flesh and you can smell the burning stench as flesh and muscle is burnt and bubbled and blistered. You think yourself at home within this dance of life and death, each waking moment you have had since taking the flame a constant struggle, a constant balance of suffering and living. And when the last of the Mountain Men attempt to rally, attempt to lay their claws into you? You only snarl, a vicious, wicked smile replacing the impassiveness of Heda. But when one of the Mountain Men says he has a message for you? You only slice his companion’s suit open, letting the screams of a dying man fill your ears and you can feel the warriors by your side as they close in, hunger in their eyes and you know they want revenge, they want to enact pain and suffering, they want to break and crush what lives within the Mountain, to take justice owed to them by years of living under the  shadow of the Mountain. 

But when the man, _Emerson_ , says you really should listen to what he has to say, you do, if only to let the fear linger longer within those you are about to kill. But when he gives you a choice — to walk away and take your warriors with you, that all those held within the mountain will be freed you know there is a betrayal, you know he expects something other than just his life in return. And when he says to leave the Skaikru, to let the Mountain take what they need you wish to run him through with your blade, to see the life drain from his eyes and to let the blood he has stollen be returned to the ground where it belongs and so you take him by the throat, you let the wickedness of your blade dig into this neck and you think you can savour this moment. But Emerson knows you aren’t stupid, aren’t without planning or cunning, so when he tells you of the weapon that will spit fire and metal as soon as the door is breached you pause, and you consider what will happen. 

You know that there is only one way forward into the Mountain, and the thought agonises and burns and drills into your mind when you realise that you will take losses greater than what any clan has taken before — you know that to storm a choke point will end in countless lives lost, in countless families destroyed and torn apart, and you think of the reapers you have killed, you think of the men and women you have taken life from, you think of their eyes as they fade into the nothingness that awaits them. And you pause. if only for a moment. 

To ignore the deal would mean an end of the Mountain, but you would forever hold the deaths within you, too many for you to comprehend and you think they would crush you, and smother you in the nothingness that was left for you to sift through, forever searching for _something_ never found, and you think of your father, if only to mourn the loss of something you never had, and you think of how the Mountain had taken him, of how Joden had been taken by the reapers. You think of Costia, and you think of death. You know it, you live with it, you see it every time you glimpse upon a new day, and aren’t you tired of death? Isn’t that why you had forged a coalition, so that Costia may one day have peace? 

You think of taking the deal too, you would save hundreds of lives right now, they would be allowed to return home, to their families, to _live._ But you know that the Mountain Men would return, would only bide their time until they were strong enough to once again terrorise you, or the next Heda, or the children yet to be born. To take the deal would be foolish, would only save a few lives in the _now._

But you think of Clarke. You would have to leave her, would have to surrender her to the Mountain and you can’t help but feel the erratic beat of your heart and the strumming flood of your pulse and the _not yet_ that exists between you, but you recognise weakness, and you hear it then, the faint whispers in the back of your mind,

_To be Commander is to be alone._

You think of how she sacrificed her self, her own spirit so that she could prevent the suffering of the murderer of innocents, of how she had cut open her own heart, of how she had been able to consider what none would dare do. But didn’t you give her the chance to do that? You had seen it in her eyes, you had felt it in the way she carried herself. Had you not felt it before too? To want to end the suffering of the one who made you weak? 

Clarke had crashed against 300 warriors but she had not broken, had burnt them where they stood, had been willing to consider it, had been capable of doing it. And she had done it. To protect _her_ people. She had cured the reapers. To protect _her_ people. Had allied herself with you. To protect _her_ people.

You think she will hate you. Will one day even try to take your life but you accept it, you embrace it, you let it fuel your anger, your hatred and you feel it burn within you, you feel the raging beast that drives the blood through your veins and you accept it. If only as penance for what you think you are about to do, about to make _her_ do. To protect _her_ people. And you think to yourself, isn’t she willing to consider anything? Isn’t she capable of doing anything? To protect _her_ people, you think she would do anything. And so you take a breath, hold it for a silent moment, 

_love is weakness._

You hear it quietly in the very far reaches of your mind, a whispered prose heard through the chilling storm that rages within the very fibres of your flesh and blood. But you aren’t _weak_ and so you breathe out. And you accept the deal. 

To protect _your_ people _._

 

* * *

_Wanheda._  

It’s a title you haven’t heard since three Hedas ago, before you were even capable of knowing. But you never heard it, not with your ears. But you think now, as you look into the pyres that burn, a beautiful, dazzling brilliance to the chaos of only days before you think you understand. But maybe you never will, no one could ever understand the burden of death that hangs heavy around you. Not anyone living. 

Almost 400 pyres burn before you, but you look into them, let the fire burn into your retinas, and you imagine that it sears away the layer of betrayal you think sits heavy across you, a blanket to ward off the living. 

You remember the smell, the flies that had buzzed and the liquid that had pooled at your feet. You had returned a week later, your scouts having informed you that Skaikru were safe, that Clarke had been the last one to leave the Mountain and that no movement had since been observed. So you had taken a small band of warriors, ones you trusted — as much as you could trust — and had stood outside the Mountain. Even then you could smell it, the rotting flesh of those that you had forced her to kill. You think it had buried itself into your skin, you think you had let it take residence in the very heart of your being and so you had entered the Mountain, and had let yourself see what she had been willing to do, had been capable of doing. You had felt the churning of your stomach, you had heard the retching of warriors at your back as you had laid eyes upon the dining hall and when you had realised that you stood upon the fifth that was once a living being? Some warriors had emptied their stomachs, had cursed quietly under breath, but none had left. They had stood by your side and then you had moved the bodies. If only to honour the sacrifice you think she had to make — the sacrifice you _know_ she made. 

_Wanheda._

_The Commander of Death._

Fitting, you think, but you can’t help but to mourn the death of what you know had existed. what could have existed. But it was and will always be weakness you think. And so you turn from the pyres as they smoke in the early grey of the morning light, just before the red of the sun can kiss the sky and you leave her behind. 

 

* * *

 

Days have passed but you still find yourself in TonDc, if only to provide Indra with more warriors so that she may rebuild her destroyed village more quickly, may be able to construct houses in time for the piercing cold of a soon to be winter. You rest for a moment in your tent when you are interrupted by a scout, breathless and hair swept back in a hasty braid. She tells you that a member of Skaikru has come, wishes to speak with whoever is in charge, that they have questions regarding Clarke, and you think you should ignore it, should send Indra to make discussion. But you don’t, if only to hear about Clarke just once more. 

You find yourself face to face with Octavia, brash and headstrong, and you see it in her eyes that she doesn’t forgive you for allowing the missile to land, and you think that you would see the same burning hatred in Clarke’s eyes too — and you would deserve it — you deserve this too, don’t you?

“Where is _she_?” it comes out rude, abrupt and you stop Ryder from quickly removing Octavia’s head with a raising of your hand. You know who she refers to, who anyone would refer to in such a manner, but still, it surprises you — surely Clarke is still with Skaikru, but Octavia must take your silence as a concession of lack of knowledge and so she continues, “Clarke left, she isn’t at Arkadia anymore,” And perhaps if you weren’t a natblida, if you hadn’t undergone years of training, if you weren’t Heda you would have reacted. But you are all those things — even when it spites you — and so you merely level your chin, harden your gaze and you reply,

“I do not know where Clarke is,” you see Octavia eye you carefully, and you give her this moment of contempt filled brevity if only so that you have the time to mull over her words, “I will send scouts to search the forest,” is all you add before you wave her away, casting your eyes to Ryder, who steps forward, roughly pushing Octavia out of your tent. And for the first time since the Mountain you think you feel a sadness that stills your heart and heavies the breath in your lungs. 

_Clarke is missing._

 

* * *

Winter has set itself upon the world when you receive a message informing you that Wanheda has been seen near a village to the south of TonDC, almost in the heart of Trikru territory. And you let the news warm your heart for only a moment before you return your attention to those in front of you. the Yujleda and Trishana ambassadors both stand before you, they had been informed of the bandit attacks across the border and into Trikru lands. The anger had been clear in both their faces and warriors had quickly been pledged to help contain the situation. And you had expected it, an attack on one clan of the forest was as much an attack on all three.  

The bandits are Azgeda, you are sure of it, as you are sure that Yujleda and Trishana would follow Trikru into another war. But the Coalition is your responsibility and so you must convince them. And you think you know why Azgeda has chosen now to start trouble, with the Mountain no longer a threat, the Coalition has no clear enemy. But you can not understand the _why_ of the situation, if only because trade amongst all clans has consistently increased, has helped all under the banner of the Coalition, and you think with Skaikru contained behind your cordon they will not be a problem. You have even begun to send them supplies to help them survive the winter — even if you had the supplies delivered in front of their gates and dropped off, the Skaikru guards eyeing whichever unfortunate warriors Indra has chosen to disguise as traders for the task. You weren’t a fool, you know that Skaikru will be a potential enemy, but you think that if you can make them reliant on the supplies, stop them from learning to live off the ground during the harshest season, then they may be less willing to throw it away in a foolish war — but you are no fool and so you had set a cordon around Arkadia, had instructed those that watched to turn back any wandering too far from Arkadia’s walls in whichever manner allowed the misdirection to be unrecognised. And you waited. You can not make a move in the next part of your plan, not without Wanheda to help guide the Skaikru. _Not without Clarke._  

 

* * *

 

The bandits grow more bold with each attack on the border villages. You are thankful that deaths have been few, though the injured are mounting. And you know it for what it is —a probe, a test to gauge the reaction of the Coalition, to see just how far Azgeda can provoke before crossing a line, all behind the infuriating veil of _bandits._ You have called up the rangers from the south to help bolster the front and you prepare for what you think will come, and you think you can feel it in the howling of the wind and the screaming of the snow — Azgeda has woken from its slumber. 

 

* * *

 

You read reports that Clarke is as well as can be expected. That she sleeps poorly, that she throws herself into healing but that she is getting better. And you can’t help but to deviate only a bit from where you had initially planned your war band to move as warriors continue to travel their way up to the northern border, and you can picture it, the steady stream of death merely moving from one desolate land looking for the next to quench its thirst and you can’t help but to feel so very, very tired. Isn’t that why you had forged the Coalition? so that Costia may one day live in peace? Isn’t that why you left Clarke at the mountain? So that others may not suffer? May one day just _live?_  

But you hear it whispered quietly, it leaches its way through the cracks of your mind

_To be Commander is to be alone._

_In everything._

_Even in success? Y_ ou think quietly in response, and you let the question echo and linger in the heavy silence of your mind, but you don’t need to hear an answer. You already know.

 

* * *

 

You spend the free moments you are granted during your travels through Trikru lands training, ensuring that all who are with you are prepared to fight an Azgeda force. Your warriors know that it is Azgeda, as do the Yujleda and Trishana that join your force, that you are preparing them to fight. You ensure that they have training in fighting when the snow is icy beneath their feet, one wrong step all that is needed for their life to be taken from them. You make sure that they can move swiftly through the thick, sucking snow that clings to their legs if they are ambushed covering the open ground. And you train with them, you take the blows you receive, you ignore the stinging of the blades that cut into your skin and you ignore the pained grunts that you hear when you retaliate, when you strike with a ferocity that sometimes consumes you. And when you are too tired to continue for the day you allow yourself a moment’s rest — if only due to the incessant badgering of your war camp’s healer. You think you are ready for it to all be over. Aren’t you tired of always fighting? You think you are. You _know_ you are. But the commander is not allowed to feel tired, is not allowed a moment to really just live for themselves but always for their people. Isn’t that what you have really only ever done? That every time you tried, it was all for nothing, all for a sacrifice you would always make? Must always make? You snort then, at the thought, and you must startle the healer as she tugs the stitch slightly too hard offering a quiet _Moba Heda_ before she continues. But you ignore it. What else can you do?  

You sit in silence, the softness of the furs covering your bed calling to you, and you watch the healer slowly pull your flesh back together. She reprimands you as softly as she can, that you must let your wounds heal, must let them recover before you throw yourself once more into a fight but you merely shrug ever so slightly and she accepts your decision in all the wisdom that Heda has. You look at her as you feel the steady pull of the stitch through your skin and you don’t really notice it, you don’t really feel the slight sting as the needle pricks your skin just enough to let you know that you still live. You don’t notice the steady throb that spreads ever so dully from the wound. You don’t think you feel much anymore. But you let your eyes wander and you see the intricate tattoo that winds its way down her neck, how her braids cradle her face warmly in a kind embrace, how her gaze is tender and soft as she looks at the wounds that cover your body. And you realise she has finished when she looks into your eyes, her hand a soft lingering offer above your knee and you think it would be easy, that it would be simple, even careless and carefree to just lean forward for just a moment, allow weakness to rule your actions. But you hear it whispered to you, you see the words as they etch themselves into your very being,

_To be Commander it to be alone._

_In everything._

But above all that? 

_She isn’t Clarke._

 

* * *

 

You’re ambushed as you make your way nearer to the village that Clarke has been staying. You recognise the fighting style of the few bandits that dared to attack such numbers of Trikru and Trishana, Yujleda still a few days ride away. You had slaughtered them all. You had removed a hand from a bandit as she had tried to close her grasp around your throat, you had opened the belly of an over eager bandit as he had attacked a wounded warrior who had been protecting your back. And you had sliced open the throat of a third after he withdrew his sword from the healer, herself a skilled swords woman — as anyone must be if they are to accompany Heda. You had seen her fight well, she had even been at the Mountain and you had seen her attack reaper and Mountain man alike with a ferocity and brutality that would perhaps seem unfitting of a healer. But she would die for you, as any warrior would. And so with the last of the bandits eliminated, their blood wetting the ground that lays beneath your feet, you kneel down besides her, cradle her head softly in your arms and whisper her name soothingly. You utter the ancient words as she looks to you, her eyes tender and soft for the final time, blood trickling slowly from her mouth.  

_Yu gonplei ste odon._

And you think you’re tired of death and its callous, cruel grasp, and you think you are tired of living when others must die for you, who must live with the consequences of your actions,

But,

_To be commander is to be alone._

_In everything._

 

* * *

 

You let the pyres burn until all that remains is a smoking shadow of their former glory, you let the heat of them wash over you when you stand too close, and you imagine it burning away the years of suffering, the years of choices you’ve made that have led you to this very moment. And when the smoke begins to sting your eyes you let it, you let it seep into your nostrils and fill your lungs with the acrid stench of death and suffering and you think you see the spirits that dance within the smoke, that mock you, urging you to join them in their suffering, to embrace what you have done and to follow them where they now find themselves. You think of the healer in that moment, and you think it pains you only slightly when you realise she had been by your side since you had ascended, and you think that you do not deserve the loyalty of those that give it so willingly, that do not see the monster you think you have become. 

 

* * *

 

You arrive at the outskirts of the village later the following day, you had left some of your warriors in the surrounding forest with orders to patrol the area, to ensure that no other bandits had made it this far into Trikru lands. You sent messengers to the neighbouring villages to inform them that war will soon be upon them again. But above all else,  you feel tired, more than you think you’ve ever felt. The winter season leaving you drained, and the Azgeda bandits a constant, annoying, juvenile thorn in your side. You can’t quite figure out why Azgeda is causing problems for the Coalition. You don’t know. 

But you do. It is always the same with her. 

Since the fall of the Mountain you haven’t rested, haven’t slept, not properly, thoughts never straying far from that one thing that itches and writhes and buries itself into the recesses of your mind.  

You now find yourself, back straight, shoulders squared, striding aimlessly, purposefully through the war camp that has sprung up, warriors greeting you with soft murmurs and you return their greetings with a nod of your head. You don’t realise you’ve found your way to your tent until a guard greets you, moving to step aside. 

But you don’t enter. Something tells you to turn and to cast your gaze just once more across the war camp. So you do. 

And you see her.

You see her, a tightly wrapped bundle tucked snug under her arm, body clad in the dark brown and green furs and leathers you come to expect from a Trikru warrior, a deadly blade strapped to her thigh, one across her back.

She looks well you think. Tired maybe, but you recognise that it is from exercise and not the demons that you live with. And you think she looks healthy and strong. But you think, more importantly, she looks alive. 

But, she must sense you gazing upon her, you see her head turning and her eyes roaming the war camp, searching and searching until they land upon you. And just for a moment you think you feel a barely there spark, a soft rumble in the core of your being as blue meets green. You think you smile then, it must be faint, but you think you feel your lips quirk up at the corners, and your cheeks twitch just a bit, just a fraction. 

And you see her eyes sparkle as the light hits them in just the right way. You’ve missed them. 

You’ve missed her. 

But then she turns, hearing her name being called and you too fade and slip back into the chaos that is now your existence. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This picks up only a few hours after the end of "Learning to Be Again"

_I forgive you._

The words ring out lowly in your mind, you can’t help but to turn them around, to think them over and to fight to let them sink in. To accept what you heard. You think yourself undeserving of her forgiveness, and perhaps it burns just a little but you think that you can learn to live with what they may one day represent. You think you will have to tell her why you had made that decision at the Mountain, what you had been willing to force her to do. But _not yet_ you think. 

The ride to Polis is long, almost five days at a steady swift pace but it will take you longer as your numbers swell, already numbering almost 500 strong from the neighbouring villages. You will continue to rendezvous with other warriors as you travel up to Polis, some you will hold back for when you will need to rotate any warriors that are injured and some merely remaining to ensure that no village is left unprotected. Other clans have already begun to mobilise their own forces, some readying themselves for the eventual call to war, some clans more eager to join the fight against Azgeda as it tries to throw the coalition once more into turmoil. And through all this, you think of Azgeda as an itch, an irritation that no matter how much you will it to leave you be, it will always return, always annoy you, always drive you further and further into a relentless annoyance that you can not satisfy, can not even soothe. 

 

* * *

 

You ride at the front of the lead convoy, you will arrive at Polis first, within a number of days before the rest of your warriors arrive, the morning air a cool breeze that warms the trees around you just enough to tell you that spring has begun its warming path across your lands and you are thankful that open conflict did not break out during the height of winter, if only so that Azgeda would not have an advantage in the fighting you are sure to see the coming season.  

Your thoughts turn to Clarke and the Skaikru, and you know you will have to tell her your plans, and you hope that after all these months she may be willing to listen, to maybe even accept what you will ask of her. She rides besides you too, the morning sun shining down upon her and you can’t help but to let your eyes linger for only a moment as you glance her way, to ensure that she is still there and you think you see it in the way her eyes scan the forest carefully, in the way she holds herself that she is comfortable, wary but not here unwillingly and you think that perhaps with her by your side in this moment you feel just a little bit less burdened by your actions, that perhaps the ghosts of the dead do not linger as closely around you and that the light you feel she embodies helps to push back against the turmoil you think exists within you. 

But isn’t that weakness? 

You aren’t so sure. 

You catch the movement of a horse emerging from the foliage not far from where you travel and your hand tightens only slightly against the reins of your horse, you see a few of your warriors move just a slight bit closer before the rider calls out a greeting, and tells you that the path is clear for the next couple of candle marks of your journey and that there are warriors from the cordon you set around Skaikru within the trees nearby, you nod your head in thanks before the scout once again disappears into the undergrowth. 

Your thoughts are soured by the acceptance that despite the vast number of warriors you have in the forests throughout Trikru lands there are still Azgeda forces moving through it and you are sure that the ones that roam your lands will continue to target those close to you — you are sure the ones that killed Cleo were assassins sent by Nia, or at the very most exceptionally skilled warriors, ones that had specific orders to eliminate Wanheda. And perhaps you will grieve for the loss of your sister, you may even one day accept that it is not weakness to long for something you had not had the chance to live but it is not this day, so you push the thought aside, you lock it behind the mask that is yourself and you clear your thoughts.

“There are a lot of warriors around us, aren’t there?” you turn to Clarke then, and her eyes look carefully into the trees around her, and you know she searches for the warriors you have shadowing the small advance party you ride at the head of and in this moment you think of Anya and how she had trained you to move through the branches, to breathe with the rustling of the leaves as they dance in the wind and you know Clarke will not be able to find those that have hidden themselves, not unless they wish to be seen and so you nod your head,

“Yes,” you let your eyes gaze into hers and perhaps for a moment you let yourself memorise the shade of blue that looks back, “they have been following us since we left the village,” you finish,

“That’s pretty cool,” she says then, a small smile gracing her lips, “Yasmin says that only the best warriors get the honour of serving directly under you,” and you turn to look behind Clarke as her second — Yasmin — ducks her head in embarrassment at having garnered your attention, 

“All that serve directly under me must be good at many things,” you answer then, and in this moment you find yourself wanting to continue to speak to Clarke, to embrace what she has opened for you, and you think that maybe you want to do more than _just survive_ if only for the next few days, and so you continue, “I must often move through the lands with a small party, more would draw too much attention, would make me move and react slowly to what I must see to amongst the clans,” you look back at Clarke now and she smiles back softly in encouragement, “many here are selected to serve because they exceed at what they train at, but all must be proficient in different skills,” you finish and Clarke nods her head in understanding,

“Makes sense,” she pauses, gathers her thoughts briefly, “It’s because if one person is hurt or dies someone else could take their place?” she asks then, and you nod, 

“There was a healer,” and you think back to her for a soft moment, “she was exceptionally skilled at a sword, so she could both fight and heal,” and you see that Clarke understands, “there are a number within these warriors that know the basic skills of a healer, but you are probably the most skilled amongst them,” you add and you see her cheeks tinge a slight shade,

“Was that a compliment?” 

“No,” 

And you think you hear it softly, a faintness to the sound that rings slowly within your mind, softer than it has been in years,

 _Love is weakness._  

 

* * *

 

Your mood returns to a darker storm that sullies your moment of peace when you are again intercepted by a scout, her message carrying news of a number of wounded from the most recent Azgeda incursion and she even informs you that Skaikru are becoming more venturous as they explore the forest that surrounds them since the winter snow began melting. The sun stills hangs dutifully in the sky, enough light left for the long journey ahead and you think it would not be too much difficulty to redirect your war band to to Arkadia — and wouldn’t it be the best time, in this moment? When Clarke is perhaps the most open to your suggestion than she may ever be if you break news of your cordon to her now, rather than later? And so you redirect your horse slightly, the warriors around you shifting easily with the change of direction and you turn to see Clarke’s puzzled gaze. 

“We’re going to Arkadia, aren’t we?” she asks then, looking in the sky to ascertain the change in direction from the sun. 

“Yes, there are things that involve them,” you respond quietly,

“The scout said something to you, about Arkadia,” and you recognise it for the statement it truly is, rather than the question her voice had spoken and you turn as fully in your saddle as possible now  so that you may meet her eyes, 

“I have been watching Skaikru,” you begin and she looks at you, her brow furrowing just a touch in thought. You pause to let her think over what you are sure will frustrate her, what will perhaps not engender her to your plan but she merely shrugs, looks back to you and responds,

“I figured as much,” and you turn your head a slight tilt, “I saw the supplies they had, the furs and other things,” she continues, “when I went to Arkadia… when—” and you see her eyes darken, and her mouth press into a hard line and you hear the words she leaves unsaid _when Cleo died._ But then Clarke shakes her thoughts, rolls back her shoulders and continues, “I didn’t think they’d have been able to get those supplies without help, and they didn’t seem surprised to see grounders either,” she pauses again and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, “I probably would have watched them too, after what happened…” she trails off, and you think you feel your heart clench inside your chest, you think you feel the guilt slowly start to rise at what she is unable to mention. But you are the Commander and so you steel yourself, take a steadying breath and then relax. She must see your quiet look of surprise if only through the way your eyes shift just slightly, because she continues, “I told you I understand what you did, Lexa,” and it _hurts_ you think, if only she _really_ knew just how much you were willingly to gamble, how much you were willing to let her endure. But you don’t voice those thoughts, not net, 

“I did not know if they would attack or not,” you say instead, “there have been warriors in the forest,” you continue and you see the small grimace that twists her mouth, “I wish for you to represent Skaikru,” you finish and you see her face look up, surprise colouring her eyes.

“Because I’m Wanheda,” she answers the unspoken question of _why her_ and you nod your head in acknowledgement, “you want Skaikru to fight alongside you against Azgeda,” she surmises, and again you nod your head, and you think you feel your heart beat a frantic moment before she sighs deeply, and replies, “ok,” and you think that a layer of apprehension has been allowed to thaw, its cold embrace lessened just a bit, “that’s why we’re going to Arkadia, so that I can convince them,” Clarke says, interrupting your thoughts, her eyes steady and piercing as she looks to you and so you reply with a _yes_ and a lifting of your chin and you think she understands that she must convince her people that it is for the best, that the fighting will not avoid them and that to ally with the coalition once again, and to ally herself with you once again is best for her people. 

But isn’t it also best for _your_ people? You do not wish to fight two wars and so you hope that Clarke will succeed. And you think, that above all this? Maybe one day what is best for Clarke and her people will be best for you because one day she and Skaikru will be _your_ people. 

 

* * *

 

You arrive at the edge of the clearing, Arkadia jutting up from the ground an image of jagged destruction and survival. You and Clarke had both agreed that it would be best for her to make the appeal without you, to convince Skaikru that aiding in the coming conflict would benefit them — and you trust her to succeed, and isn’t that why you stand where you are now? Because she will do anything to protect her people? And so you grimace once more from the shade of a tree as you watch her ride out into the open, Dala and Tobias atop their own horses by her side. Clarke had told you she thought it might take until the next day for her to convince her people and so you had instructed your warriors to make camp, using a small clearing with enough room to accomodate the few warriors that travel with you. 

You walk the perimeter, if only to keep your thoughts busy when you see Clarke’s second sitting before a fire suturing cloth together, her brows furrowed in an all too familiar fashion and you stop, you let your gaze wander over her as you take her in and you think you can see the familiar way in which she holds herself now, in the way her hair is braided and you think she reminds you of Clarke and for a moment you let the thought move freely through your mind, let it sink in that you were not there for Clarke when she needed someone, and that Cleo had been there, had been able to give Clarke the time to heal. You think of the familiarity that you had seen between them both, of the way their gazes had met, and the way Clarke’s hand had lingered on Cleo’s arm when you had both argued and you feel a pang of sadness in the pit of your belly, you feel your chest squeeze and your lungs heavy with the burden of sacrifice, of longing and want, but above all those, you think you feel loss the strongest, it’s a keening note that you feel, a constant hymn echoing within you. You feel eyes gazing upon you then, and you clear your thoughts to see Yasmin looking at you, her eyes downcast and burdened by a life of harsh survival and so you walk slowly to her, giving her the time to signal that she wishes to be alone, that she doesn’t wish to look upon your face and you would understand. But she doesn’t. She holds her chin up and continues to suture the cloth in her hands, the needle a quick steady rhythm that you lose yourself in. You sit opposite her now, the fire between you both a warming wall that helps buffer the cooling breeze of the lowering sun. 

“I miss Cleo,” it’s a quiet intrusion into the silence that hangs around you but you meet Yasmin’s gaze, “you look like her,” she finishes before casting her eyes down into the fire as if she were to burn away the image you carry for her to see. You think of Cleo in this moment, of the one strong memory of her that you have, of strong arms holding you, ensuring you wouldn’t fall from a tree you had found yourself in and you think you smile then, it must be soft, faint and barely there, but you feel it in the way your cheeks twitch just a bit and so you tell Yasmin of your sister, you tell her of the memory you have of her and you see Yasmin’s mouth quiver slightly, and how she blinks away the tears that threaten to spill and you let the silence sit between you both for a while longer before she repeats again, “I miss Cleo,” and she wipes her hand across her eyes, a small sniffle carrying away the tears,

And so you breathe in, and let the words be carried by the whispered exhale you release,

“I do too,” 

 

* * *

 

You wake to a cool morning, the sun barely touching the pinking sky. You lay for only a moment, just enough time to gather your thoughts and ready your mind for the challenges you think you will face. You pull the furs from you then, the cool air causing the exposed skin of your body to prickle with the morning chill and you sit up, stretching slightly as you feel the pull of your muscles protest under the familiar strain. It’s a familiar routine you find yourself performing, you pull your hair into its usual braids with a speed borne of years of practice and dexterity gained from hours of fighting, you scrub your face fiercely, letting the coarse material scrape away your sleep. You look into the polished metal mirror that hangs in front of you, and not for the first time you find yourself unable to really recognise who you’ve become. You see the shadows under your eyes, you think you look older than Cleo ever did and you think you feel it too. Your eyes wander to the scars that litter your body, and you grimace at the particularly grotesque one that runs down the centre of your chest, that bites into your left breast before curling down to your ribs and you can’t help but feel a small simmering burn of anger at the assassin that had tried to kill you before you even formed the coalition. You let the cloth scrape away the sleep that still clings to your body, rubbing it harshly against your skin, and when you’re only left with faint red marks you think that maybe it is really just you trying to clean yourself of the deeds you have done, ones that you will continue to make. Ones you will always have to make. 

You pull on fresh undergarments, and then bind your chest firmly, you take a small dagger, more blade than handle to its length and you tuck it carefully between your breasts, ensuring that the handle is not visible. You carefully wrap your thigh in a tight knot, the next of your many blades hidden in the inside of your leg, in the crook where leg meets body, the macabre memory of when you had used the blade once, a warrior thinking you were merely a young female second before you had slammed it into his eye. The next you tuck into your sock that you pull to your knees. You pull on your pants now, patting any signs of hidden weapons away before you strap your thighs with your more obvious weapons, always careful that they are loose enough to retrieve with a moment’s notice yet held firmly enough that you may leap from branch to branch. Your boots, now laced are more weapon than even one could expect, metal bracing the sides. Your shirt and coat are last, the heavy weight a familiar cage that settles your breathing and braces you. The last of your hidden blades is tucked into your collar, the handle within reach of your mouth if you were to twist your neck slightly and then you strap your first sword to your back, and the second to your hip. 

You cast one last glance into the mirror, gone is the girl who prefers to rest for a moment before rising, and in her place you think you see a shadow of a person, you see the shadows under her eyes, the hard line of her jaw and the tightness that she holds herself with. You think you recognise the look that sits uncomfortably on her face. How many years did Joden serve as commander? Six, and the Commander before him? Five, you think. You took the mantle at 16 and you haven’t even lived to see 21 seasons of your birth yet, perhaps this will be the last service to your people, and you think it fitting. You think the woman you look upon is tired, worn down from sacrifice and suffering. But above all that? You think she looks broken and empty. Perhaps the spirit of the Commander would be best served by a younger body, a newer natblida better able to take the flame. But you shake the thought, turn and exit your tent, 

 _Not yet_ echoes quietly in your mind, a tingle at the back of your neck.

 

* * *

 

The morning’s sun paints the sky in a richness not often seen and you gaze upon the orange glow and the red whispers as you wait for Clarke to exit Arkadia. You stand at the edge of the clearing, Ryder a quiet presence by your side. The only sound you hear the faint sighs of the leaves as they sway easily in the breeze, the neighing of the horses and the occasional yawn from Yasmin who you’ve come to realise is not fond of the early mornings thrusted upon her young shoulders. Perhaps if you were not Heda you would turn, smile at her softly, but you are not granted such luxuries and so you keep your gaze aimed towards Arkadia. Movement catches your eye and you see the gates open, three figures atop horses exiting easily through the open maws of what makes those around you uneasy in it’s foreignness.  

Clarke rides between Dala and Tobias, the reins held easy in her hands, and you think she looks at ease, comfortable in how she rides the horse, how she shifts easily with its movements and guides it with her knees and perhaps if you were different you would recognise, even confront the feeling of loss that shifts with a futility within you, of the longing and regret at having missed much of what Clarke had experienced, had learnt without you. 

Clarke closes the distant between you both then, her expression easy and she smiles brightly at Yasmin as she passes her, ruffles her hair softly before moving her horse next to yours, “They’ll help,” she opens, “it wasn’t easy,” she adds ruefully, “but they’ll provide medical help, even some tech,” she pats the bag strapped to the side of her saddle, “but they aren’t willing to provide guardsmen, they barely have enough ammunition to guard themselves let alone use it in fighting,” and you think that maybe soon you will begin to let them learn to live on the ground, 

“Good,” you answer, “I will send them extra supplies this month in thanks, to help alleviate some of the burden they may face when the fighting increases,” and Clarke smiles warmly at you then, her eyes crinkling at the corners briefly, and you think you feel a slight hitch in your breathing, a slight clenching of your heart as you let yourself become lost in her gaze for only a brief moment and then you’re turning your horse, guiding it to the front of the small convoy, “we have far to travel, and  I wish to be in Polis within the next two nights,”  

 

* * *

 

Clarke, you realise, has never once seen buildings larger than what she saw at TonDC, at the village she had sought refuge in and even Arkadia in all its twisted abstraction. But as you look at her now, her eyes widened in wonder you can’t help but to feel pride fill your veins, and your heart beat faster for just a moment as she takes in the tower that stands in the centre of Polis. And perhaps you are thankful that you arrived at the perfect time, that the sun has crested the mountains in the distance and now shines radiantly in reds and oranges and pinks, a brilliance to the way the light dances with the soft yellow of the stone the tower was built from. You think you’re even thankful that the sky is a clear blue, barely a wisp of clouds to lessen what Clarke sees before her. You continue to look her way discreetly as you lead your war band to the base of the tower, to where the stables are, and you are greeted by those that live within Polis, many often bowing their heads in respect, others — more confident reaching to brush a hand against your horse as you pass and you look at each of them as you pass, bowing your head in turn. And it is especially at times like this, when you see children run underfoot that make that aching tiredness you feel just a bit bearable. Perhaps even worth it, and so you continue forward, greeting those that you pass. 

Walking into the main entrance to the tower lets you more comfortably look to Clarke. Her eyes still raking over the tower entrance, a smile in her eyes and you think that just for a moment you could lose yourself in them, but she interrupts her thoughts, a soft wonder colouring her voice, “this is where you live?” 

“Yes,” you answer, gesturing down the hall to where the lift will take you towards your throne room, “I was raised here, where all who may one day become Heda are brought,” you pause when you notice Yasmin dutifully following behind Clarke whilst Tobias, Dala and the other rangers that had accompanied you already having left to attend to other things, “We have much to do, and you must meet with the clan ambassadors who are here,” you finish as you step onto the lift, Clarke and Yasmin following close behind you. You think your mouth ticks upwards just a bit when the lift gives a familiar lurch and you see Yasmin’s eyes widen in shock before she’s reaching out and gripping Clarke’s hand in a tight embrace, and even Clarke looks to you for a moment, surprise flittering across her eyes,

“I didn’t even think about how we’d get up there,” she laughs softly, gesturing upwards with her free hand, and at that you raise an eyebrow, before looking forward once more. 

“I do not think you will have to talk much, Clarke,” you begin, “your presence will be enough for the moment that the clans more reluctant to cast blame on Azgeda will not move to stop the forces already moving to the border,” you turn briefly to catch her eye again before you continue, “but, it will also be beneficial if you briefly discuss the advantages that Skaikru can bring,” you see her nod to herself then, before she lets out a lengthy sigh that comes out shaky and uneven, “I can postpone the meeting,” you quickly add, her unease evident in her stiffening posture, “the ambassadors will wait for tomorrow, Clarke,” but she shakes her head,

“No, I’m here now, I can do this,” 

 

* * *

 

You have Yasmin taken away by one of your guards, with instructions to show her the healers room within the tower. You sit on your throne of twisted wood and metal, the light casting long shadows as it winds its way through the curtains draped behind you and you let your gaze fall upon the Ambassadors that sit before you, Clarke the 13th member, sits close to your right, her chair to the end of the long table before you. Her introduction had gone smoothly and you think that Wanheda is a title fitting enough to warrant the wary respect of all those before her. You think too, that you see a different kind of respect from Yujleda and Trishana as they listen to Clarke discus the benefits of Skaikru, and how they can help with the injured. The Boudalan and Ouskejon ambassadors take in her appearance carefully, and you are thankful that she still wears her blades prominently, one strapped across a strong thigh, the other to her back, and you see the appraisal within the ambassadors’ eyes as they see the ease with which her hand often lingers against the handle. You, yourself, have found it hard to really listen to what the other ambassadors have to say, you already have your moves planned out, the only annoyance is the often loud interjection by the Azgeda ambassador as he denies all allegations of Azgeda involvement, and you think he must not realise that Nia has become more open in her attacks when you signal for a guard to bring in the grey and blue clothing you had taken from those that had killed Cleo. You see his eyes widen then, and you think you feel a sick satisfaction sink into your bones, and you think that were you to be a snake, your fangs would extend, would pierce his flesh and when you stand slowly, the shouts of the ambassadors quickly silence as you stalk towards the ambassador.  

“You still deny Azgeda involvement?” you hiss out then, and you see his eyes dart back and forth from the clothing held in the guard’s hand and to your eyes, “Azgeda wishes to break the coalition,” your eyes are deadly now, “an attack against one…” you pause, and you cast your gaze slowly over all the other ambassadors, “is an attack against all,” you finish. 

“Heda—” he stammers out, “I did not know that it was Azgeda, it must surely be bandits who have stolen our clothing, who are trying to disrupt the coalition,” he manages to finish, his breaths coming much more quickly, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair, knuckles a deathly white.

“I will assume, for now,” you pierce him with a vicious look, “that you have had no knowledge of your Kwin’s plans,” you turn then, and sit back on your throne, and you cross your legs deftly, and you draw your knife from where it sits against your thigh, “and because you have been here, in polis,” you start to spin the blade between your fingers, the blade singing softly through the air, “you have not been in contact with Kwin Nia,” you let the blade still in your fingers, the point embedding softly into the armrest of your throne, “or have you betrayed the coalition… betrayed _me.”_

You would laugh, snicker even, at his back pedalling, his quick promises that he would never betray you, would never betray the coalition. Could never do either. But you don’t much feel like laughing now, not when everything you have fought for since you became Heda is being challenged and you think it insulting, infuriating and juvenile. And for the countless time you find yourself wondering _why_ Azgeda is causing issues, that perhaps if you could just understand _why_ then you could avoid the bloodshed you know will come. But you don’t know, and so you send him away, informing him that he will be under constant guard — for his protection of course — and then you dismiss the other ambassadors, most you feel are confident that Azgeda is behind the attacks, and you smile briefly at the Yujleda and Trishana ambassadors as they leave, the last to do so as they bow their heads warmly as they exit.

You sit now, in your throne, your thoughts turning to all that you have learnt, of plans you have put in motion to confront Azgeda and you feel a slow burning in your chest that you think would engulf you, would burn bright and strong — if only you didn’t feel so tired, if only you wou—

“Hey,” you startle, your eyes snapping up to meet concern filled blue — how could you not realise she was still here — “are you alright?” she asks then, stepping closer to you, and you see her reach out slightly, as if to place a comforting hand upon your knee before her hand stills and falls back to her side, you close your eyes briefly, shut them tightly and breathe out in one broken breath,

“We go to war,” you start, licking your lips quickly, “and do not know why,” you continue, the frustration again rising within you, “Azgeda is— they are— _she_ is…” but you can’t quite put into words what you feel, what you want to say…

“I understand,” Clarke says then, she moves closer to you and she stops before where you sit in your throne and then she’s kneeling softly down in front of you so that she is level with your eyes, and you see within hers a softness that you have not felt for a very long time, “I understand not being able to do anything about something,” she whispers, “about wanting to change something, but you can’t, and that all you want to do is _act…_ but what you can only do is _react_ to what happens around you,” her voice is thick with emotion now, and you can sense that what she says is more than just comforting words, “it’s personal, isn’t it?” she says, “for _you,”_ she finishes.

Your thoughts turn to Costia then, and you remember the memory not your own, of killing the Azgeda King and so you nod your head, “Yes,” you say, “Kwin Nia will always want to cause trouble, will always cause trouble — until she dies,” you finish

“Why?” Clarke pushes softly, and you look into her eyes, you see the way the light dances slowly, how it gives depth to them, and you see the way the light ignites her hair, how it cradles her face,

“I killed the King of Azgeda,” you whisper then, and you feel the tingle in the back of your neck, “The commander did,” you add when you see her face puzzle briefly, “do you remember when we were trapped by the Pauna?” you ask then, and she grimaces softly, her nose crinkling and her forehead furrowing, “when I spoke of the Commander’s spirit,” and she nods at you then in understanding,

“So she blames you for something you didn’t do?” her voice is a soft husk and you think for the first time since she knelt down in front of you just how close you both are, 

“I carry the Commander’s spirit within me,” you reply, “and for that, what one Commander does, the next has done,” you pause for a moment and cast your eyes down to her lips, “and so _I_ killed the Azgeda King,” you see Clarke’s eyes dart down from your eyes for a brief moment, 

“Costia…” she whispers softly, and you nod your head softly, closing your eyes for a moment, and you whisper a quiet _yes_ and then you feel a soft squeeze on your knee, reassuring and when you open your eyes again you see understanding in hers, yet you feel it build slowly within you, you feel the guilt and you think you do not deserve what she shares with you. 

“How long ago did the Azgeda King die?” she asks then, an attempt at drawing the conversation away,

“When I was ten,” you reply, “The Commander died from his wounds later,” you continue and you see the shock in her eyes then, 

“You became the Commander at ten?” you see her eyes widened, shock colouring her tone, 

“No, Clarke, there was one more before me, Joden, we often trained together, we were raised together and then he became the next Commander,” you see her expression turn thoughtful then, you see her turning over what she has been told about you and you let your gaze linger and soften, 

“How long was he commander?” she asks eventually, 

“Until I was 16. He died fighting the Mountain,” 

“Oh… I’m sorry,” she says, “it must have been hard to lose a friend,” she finishes, her gaze once again soft.

“We were not close friends, Clarke,” it comes out softly, perhaps more so than you had intended, “natblida who are to train as the next Commander are encouraged not to form close bonds. When the Commander dies the conclave is called and all natblida who have learnt what it means to be Commander must fight until only one remains, one who is the strongest to lead our people,” and you see the shock in her eyes again, 

“You kill people you grow up with?” her brows are raised, confusion clear in her eyes, 

“Yes, it is the first lesson any Commander learns — that to be commander is to put your own suffering behind your people, to put them first in everything,” and you see the doubt in her eyes, part of you thinks you should tell Clarke of Costia, of how what you have told her of the natblida, of the conclave is not as brutal and savage as what you are sure she must think, and so you do,

You take a breath and hold it for a moment, “Costia was a natblida, too,” you whisper and you see shock once again colour Clarke’s face, but she remains silent, lets you think over the words you wish to say, “that is how I met her. She was kind, caring,” you smile a bittersweet thing that graces your lips, “but she fled the conclave, before dawn, when everyone else was asleep,” Clarke’s gaze is tender now and you know she understands that you never saw her again, “the next time I saw her—” your voice trembles softly, “was when her head was delivered to me,” you finish, a barely there waver tainting your voice.

“We’ll get through this, we’ll put a stop to Azgeda,” she says then, her voice firm and steady, but she must see the doubt lingering in your eyes, must see the heaviness you feel within your heart because she squeezes your knee again, “Lexa, what’s wrong?” 

And you meet her eyes, you think of Joden, his reign lasting six years, you think of the Commander before him, his reign lasting five. And the commander before him whose reign had lasted almost five as well. 

“Commanders do not live long, Clarke,” you look into her eyes, and you see the confusion in them, “most only serve for five years, some may serve for a year or two longer, or even shorter than that,”  you take a breath then, you feel the truth you are about to admit, the burden that sits atop your shoulders and you think of the coming war and the young natblida under you, training to one day receive the burden that is the Commander’s spirit.

“I have served for almost 5 years.” 


	6. Chapter 6

You’d forgotten how cold the dungeons this far down could be, how the stale stench of the air clings to your clothes, how it makes you want to retreat back into the light, where the air you breathe doesn’t fill your lungs with a darkness that weighs heavy within you. And for a moment you wish that you had accompanied Clarke when she had asked to explore Polis. But you are Heda, and your duties come first and so your feet carry you forward, and you hold yourself tightly, you let your thoughts fade back into your mind, Heda taking place. You pass guards at each door that is unlocked for you, their heads bowing slightly, a soft murmur of greeting sent your way. Titus follows behind you, steadfast in his presence, lingering close enough that you can feel the air his robes push around him and it comforts you, if only slightly at what you will face once again.  

You greet the last guard, her hand already firmly closed around the blade at her hip, half drawn and her stance poised to strike. She relaxes when she recognises the paint that drips from your eyes, the symbol that sits between your brows and releases her hold on the blade. 

“He is well, Heda,” she speaks softly, “as well as last you were here,” and you nod your head, “he again asked to be allowed to see the light of the sun for more than a candle mark each day,” and that you are not surprised by either. But no one knows he still lives, no one must know he still lives, and so you already know you will not grant him the request. 

“Does he still train?” you ask and the guard nods, 

“He still maintains skill with the sword and he still eats well to maintain his strength,” You motion the guard to open the last door before you and she retrieves the key from around her neck. Stepping inside you see three other guards, two already turned to the door, blades again already drawn before their eyes meet yours and then they are bowing their heads and returning the blades to their sheaths. The third stands before the prisoner, swords in both their hands as they circle each other, eyes constantly darting around, looking for an opening. 

The prisoner darts forward then, using your entrance as a distraction, slices the blade towards the guards torso, but the guard merely spins, slides on her knees, the damp of the tiled floor carrying her around the prisoner, before she is again on her feet, her blade already in motion to attack his exposed back but he turns too, lets his feet slip from under him and roll just out of reach before he is again standing, slashing the blade behind him to give room. 

“Enough,” your voice carries out, echoing out through the circular tunnel that you stand in, the fires burning brightly where they sit against the wall. The guard lowers her sword, bows her head to you, before she moves towards the prisoner, locking shackles around his arms and feet before she returns to stand by the wall with the other two guards, all the while keeping her eyes trained on the prisoner.

You look at him now, his face weathered from a harshness lived, his hair long and matted, a sadness you think you see in his eyes. But above all else he looks healthy, his body strong — even if you think his mind lonely and abandoned. 

“I did not expect you again so soon, Heda,” he says in greeting, motioning towards the bench that sits close, soft fur covering a lining to fight against the cold that wraps itself around you. He moves to it then, and you follow if only to maintain eye contact so that you may see into his eyes, and you feel the guards move quietly behind you, Titus, ever silent also a steady presence behind you, “And Fleimkepa,” the prisoner bows his head, “I have not seen you for many moons,” Titus nods once. 

“Prince Roan,” you say then, letting the timber of your voice carry out through the quiet of the dungeon, 

“I expect that I am not much of a prince anymore,” he says then, a gravel to his voice, “not since…” he trails off then, gesturing between you both at what led him to you almost three years prior. 

“You have been informed of what happens at the border,” you say then, letting your eyes bore into his and he grimaces softly, nodding once,

“Yes, Heda. The guards bring me news when there is any,” and you see the despair in his eyes, you think you feel a sadness too in how he sits, in how the words weigh heavy on his tongue,

“You do not agree with what Nia does,” you finish, stepping closer to him again and you feel your guards move with you, you hear the leather creek softly as they ready their swords. 

“I do not,” Roan replies, “I have only ever wanted what is best for Azgeda. The coalition has brought my people good trade, and they have prospered,” he finishes,

“Do you know why Nia would break with the Coalition now?” 

“No, Heda.” he pauses, casts his eyes upwards in search of an answer, “the coalition supplies Azgeda with wood to construct buildings, wool from animals so that we not rely so heavily on the furs of the pauna we hunt so dangerously, and food - meats, grains, and roots that do not live and grow where Azgeda sits,” he pauses again, you see his thoughts as they travel across his face, “Nia would not be able to break from the Coalition, not now, unless she thought she could survive on her own,” he finishes.

“She has attempted to kill Wanheda,” you say then, and you watch him carefully. You see his eyes widen a moment before he looks to you and Titus, 

“Taking the power of Wanheda would give her the power to survive a war against the 11 clans,” he says then and you had come to the same conclusion, that Nia wishes to kill Clarke and use what she gains to her advantage in a war against the Coalition forces, and you feel a warm anger that builds slowly within you at the thought. Roan watches you carefully throughout the silence that lingers, but you are careful to keep what lives within your mind hidden from all that look upon you. 

“The Coalition will march on Azgeda soon,” you say then, and you see his eyes downcast once more, “I do not wish for the people of Azgeda to suffer. For _your_ people to suffer in a war that can be avoided,” and you see his eyes narrow, you see him tense for a moment as he studies you.

“You need me,” it’s simple, a statement, a conclusion he comes to after a moment’s thought,

“Challenge Nia, defeat her and take the throne,” 

“What makes you think I can defeat her in combat,” he says then, before spreading his arms wide, “you have left me to squander my years in these dungeons,” you look carefully at him then, study him, compare him with what you remember. 

“You have been training with the Order of Heda,” you say then and you see his eyes widen as he looks to the guards that stand behind you, “you will defeat her,” 

“And,” you continue eyes hard and piercing, “you are no fool, Roan, despite your parentage, you know that the Coalition is good for your people,” and he returns your gaze, holds it steady and you think you see a small simmering spark ignite within, you think you see his eyes harden just a slight bit and then he smiles, it’s small but it graces his lips, the scars on his face contorting with the unfamiliarity of the motion.

“Ok,” and he stands slowly, holds his arms out in front of him, one hand outstretched, palm up. You look at it for a short moment before you bring your knife forward, slice open your own palm before doing the same to his, “What else do I have to live for?”

“If you break this blood oath, I will have you killed,” and you see him shrug, the blood of both your cuts meeting in a firm grasp, 

“I would expect nothing less,” 

You turn then, your palm a faint stinging that you ignore and you walk quietly to the exit, and you reach the door, a guard already opening it when you hear Roan call out softly, 

“I am sorry, Heda,” and you turn to meet his eyes and you think you see the pain, the regret and the sadness that lies within them, “I never knew,” he finishes, and you briefly think of whispered words and promises and the blackness of her blood, 

“I know,” you say then before you leave.

But as you walk away you hear the faint whispered words in the corner of your mind, foreboding, a warning and a reminder,

_Love is weakness._

 

* * *

 

“You think Prince Roan will honour the oath,” Titus says then as he walks besides you through the halls of the Tower, “that he will not continue to wage conflict with the clans,” and you know Titus has already come to the same conclusions as you, that he merely wishes for you to weigh all the alternatives,  

“Yes, Fleimkepa,” you look carefully at him as you enter the lift, “he is no fool. I saw it in his eyes when I first saw him, he truly believed that the Coalition would be good for his people,” Titus nods, “that is why Nia sacrificed him, she did not believe he could rule Azgeda,” you finish, a grimace in your voice. 

“And how will you ensure that he can challenge Nia?” Titus pushes lowly, “she resides in her capital, she will not let your forces come to her without bloodshed.”

“I will take Roan and a small force through Azgeda,” you say in reply, “most of my forces will attack at the border, to keep them occupied,” 

“And if you are caught? You will be slaughtered,” Titus says then, his brows furrowed in thought. 

“Roan will show us the way through with the least amount of danger,” you turn to look at Titus now, to ensure he sees the confidence you feel, “I will not sacrifice so many on a war that does not need to be waged. Not if I have an opportunity to take a small force to Nia,” and you see his eyes narrow a fraction,

“And if she kills you immediately?” he questions again

“She will not, She knows not that Roan still lives. That is an advantage in itself, and that will give any who confront us pause,” and you lift your chin then, to show that you will not be dissuaded.    

“You still do not know why Azgeda wishes to break from the Coalition,” 

“It does not matter anymore. It is long past containment. Open conflict will be upon us and so I must act swiftly,” Titus nods then, an acceptance in his posture now that he is satisfied you have thought through what you will next do. 

 

* * *

 

You’re tired you realise as you walk to your chambers, the mask of Heda slowly falling away as you step closer and closer to the only refuge you think you have left. You pass guards that bow their heads softly and you murmur words of greeting before you’re pushing open the doors to your chamber. You can already hear one of your handmaidens in your washroom, the crackle of a soft fire warming your bath, and you call out a soft greeting to her also, and you’re met by a quiet _Heda_ and you think you smile only briefly as you recognise Shana’s voice. Though still young, you think she will make good addition to the Order of Heda when she comes of age, her skills with the blade already considerably advanced despite her youthfulness, but it is to be expected, all who serve Heda must be. 

You shrug off your coat, and place it softly on its stand before you begin to remove your outer clothes, the flexible armour that wraps your chest easing off, a lifting of the weight that holds you steady through your days. You begin removing the weapons you have strapped to your body, placing them carefully across your desk. Your boots are next, the laces too numerous for you to completely unlace before you twist your feet determinedly from them. You’re to you pants then, and you roll them off your legs, the weighted leather armour making you feels years lighter once you stand in your undergarments. You sit quietly on your bed, careful as you unwrap the knot around your thigh to release the blade from where it sits against your skin, and you do the same for your chest binding, leaving both blades carefully hidden within the furs of your bed. 

It’s a soft, quiet walk to the washroom, and you open the door to be greeted by the warming steam of a too hot bath, soft scents of the soaps used trickle into your nose and you breathe in deeply, feeling the last of Heda slip away. Shana looks to you then, her hair tied back in the braids only to be worn by those that serve Heda and she smiles softly, the youthfulness of her face having left her behind since last you saw her. She sits at the head of the bath, small jars of soaps and ointments by her hands. You step softly to the bath, letting your feet sink into the heat slowly, a soft hum in your throat as you imagine it burn away the troubles of your day and then you sit fully, your back to Shana your head resting against the bath edge and you arms slung comfortably over the edges of the bath. 

“You still wear your paint,” she murmurs softly, her fingers slowly moving to unfurl the curls of your braids, “Do you wish for me to not remove your braids, Heda?” she questions then, her fingers stilling for a moment,

“No, it is alright Shana,” you think you have always enjoyed the company of your handmaidens. The only ones to have ever really seen you as more than just Heda, if only because you allow these small moments of tiredness to be seen, if only to let yourself live for a few moments at a time, away from the burdens of Heda, aways from the whispered tingle that itches the back of your neck. “You look well,” you say then, thinking of the armour that sits comfortably across her chest, “You have new armour,” you continue and you think you feel her smile in the movements of her fingers as they slowly pull a knot from your hair,

“Yes, Heda. I grew out of the previous armour in the season that you were away,” 

You think you smile at that, and you remember when she entered your services, her limbs much too long for her, a toothy smile and bright eyed. You lean back into her hands then when you feel the warm water she pours over your hair, and you relax further when you feel the lotions she rubs softly into your scalp, “I wish for you to be appointed a first,” it comes out soft, more request than order despite your standing within the hierarchy that is the Commander and those that serve, and you think you feel her fingers falter for only a moment, 

“You do not wish for me to continue as one of your handmaidens?” you think you hear a small amount of disappointment in her voice at what she thinks you have said, that she has not satisfied her duties and so you quickly allay her fears,

“No, Shana. You have served me well,” you feel her fingers begin to move once more, “I wish for you to be appointed a first from the Order of Heda,” and you think you feel her mouth open in shock, merely by the stilling of her fingers and the way they dig just slightly into your scalp at your proclamation, “but not until you are of age,” you finish softly.

“You honour me,” it’s quiet and bashful but you hear the pride in her voice, 

“You honour yourself, Shana. You are much more skilled than the others with a blade, your skills would be wasted if you were to continue to be a handmaiden,” She murmurs a soft word of thanks before you continue, “It would be hard, the training is brutal and you must push yourself more than you already have in the service to Heda,” and again you hear a soft thanks before you finish, “I wish to see you in the trials, perhaps in the next winter,” 

“I will,” she says then, and you can hear the smile in her voice.

Conversation quiets between you both then, and you are happy to lose yourself for a moment in the steady rhythm of the pulling of your hair, the soft scarping of her fingers against your scalp and you let your thoughts wander. You think of Roan, of Azgeda and the challenges you will face. It is something you feel will perhaps be the last that you do in service to your people, you know that Commanders do not live long and you think you feel a soothing acceptance deep within you when you think that perhaps one day soon you will not feel so tired anymore, not feel tired of the death that seems to linger, draped across your body, twisting within you. And you think you may not feel so tired of the life that is a constant game that revolves around your decisions, that is a gamble for those that serve you — of whether they may win the chance to live to see another sunrise, or whether their eyes fall to the setting sun for one last time. But then your mind turns to Clarke, of the progress you feel she has made, of her words she whispered to you and you think you smile softly, it warms your heart if only for a moment. But you hear it softly, a faint warning, a solidifying of the softness that you think could never exist within you

_To be commander is to be alone._

_In everything._

You can’t remember the last time you hadn’t heard those words, and you think that even in success you would hear them — that you have already heard them in success.

And you think that your life is not that of Lexa’s anymore. You think that you have not lived as yourself — _for yourself —_ in a very long time. You live for your people, you live as Heda, and one day you will continue as Heda through the eyes of another natblida, one less tired of death, less tired of living. But not yet, you think, you have one last task you must complete before Lexa is allowed to rest. 

You feel the brush as it pulls through your hair now, Shana humming a quiet tune as she continues to work through the knots that have formed and you reach out, taking a rough cloth and dip it into the warming water around you before you begin to wipe away the paint that drips from your eyes. It’s soothing, you think, it’s rough and you think it fitting that the mask of Heda is painless and easy to apply, but to remove it you must suffer, if only for a moment, if only slightly —and it’s a warning you think, to not be comfortable in its removal, that you will always have to be Commander. 

You sit in silence for almost half a candle mark, your hair slowly being braided once again, Shana’s soft fingers running carefully through them, checking her work with a careful eye. You hear it then, a faint thumping as feet hit stone and you feel Shana’s hands still in your hair before she is spinning around, a knife already in her hand as she turns to face the door to your washroom, her free hand reaching behind her, a second knife offered to you hilt first. You in turn quickly exit the bath, the cold air prickling your skin and you take the offered knife and then Shana is moving to the door, body tensed and then she slips out, closing the door behind her. You hear her call out, you hear the commotion of Guards outside your door before it quiets and then Shana knocks, a quick 2 taps and then a louder third — _all clear._ You dress yourself quickly, ignoring the dampness that still clings to you.

You exit your washroom to see a guard, chest heaving, sweat clinging to his face, Shana standing before him, a vision of unimpressed annoyance on her face at the sudden intrusion to Heda’s time. The two guards stationed outside your room also stand by the door to the main entrance, clearly the ones that intercepted the lone guard.

“Moba, Heda,” he wheezes out then, through lungfuls of air, and you feel the hair on the back of your neck raise in warning, the back of your neck tingle, “Wanheda has been attack,” 

 

* * *

 

You exit your chambers with a speed borne from weakness, your knives already strapped to yourself hastily, Shana and the guard that informed you of the attack close behind you. You’re stomach twists itself at the images your mind conjures, of a bloodied and bruised Clarke, of her face beaten and broken and you fight back the urge to lash out and strike the nearest object. 

“What happened?” you bark out, your teeth grinding painfully,

“She was in the markets, Heda, the rangers you assigned to her were there, following her as you instructed,” and you roll your eyes, of course they would be there, you had ordered her protection, “there was a flash of light, Heda, bright and sharp, not of a flame,” and you hear Shana growl _Mountain Tech_ before the guard continues, “it distracted the rangers and then a man tried to stab Wanheda,” your blood curdles, “she defended herself though Heda, I do not think the assassin knew she could fight,” 

“Is. She. Hurt.” you grind out, frustration hanging heavy over your shoulders. 

“Not seriously, Heda, but we have her at the healers at the base of the tower for her Protection,” 

“And the assassin, where is he?” you question, anger beginning to truly take hold. You exit the lift then, moving down the hallway to where the healers are.

“We have him in the guardhouse, he tried to destroy the tech he had with him, but we caught him before he could destroy it and flee,” the guard continues. 

As you walk down the halls servants and warriors move aside, sensing the anger that radiates from you as you push forward. You push open the doors to the healers, Shana taking place by the door, barring the entrance to anyone else. You see Clarke then, sitting bashfully on the edge of a bed a bag at her feet, and a healer kneeling before her as he cleans a cut across her chin. And for a heavy moment you don’t see the red of her blood, you don’t see the colour of her skin and the life that still lives within her. You see the black of blood oozing from her neck, you see a broken face, twisted in pain and you feel the raging storm that pierces your heart and you snarl a vicious sound before you’re moving forward, pushing the healer aside and taking Clarke’s face in your hands, turning it to the side so you can inspect the wound for yourself. You turn her face left and right, a frantic beat to the way your hands cling to her as you look closer and closer, trying to find any other wounds and you don’t realise the questions you’re voicing, don’t realise you’re speaking until soft hands close around yours, pulling them from her face.

“Lexa,” it comes out stern, but you look into her eyes then, see the humour that lives within them, “I’m ok, really, I’m fine,” 

“Are you sure,” you don’t realise how hard you’re breathing, how hard you must be holding her hands until she winces and so you force yourself to let her hands go, to lean back and regain a modicum of what Heda should embody. 

“I’m fine, really,” Clarke says again, “I managed to block it in time,” she says then, before ruefully rubbing at the cut across her chin, and your eyes narrow just slightly, at how close the blade came to her throat. 

“Where was your guard,” you hiss out then, “they did not protect you,” and you’re about to have someone go to them, to bring them to you so that you may question them personally, but Clarke cuts off your rambling thoughts,

“Tobias and Dala did their job, they were only startled for a moment before they tackled the assassin,” she’s looking at you now, a stern look in her eyes, “you won’t do anything to them,” and she stares at you, defiance in her eyes and so you acquiesce — _for now._ And so you lower your chin, acceptance clear for Clarke to see, and you think she looks smug, if only for a moment before her gaze turns quizzical, head tilting to the side, “You’re wet,” she says then and you’re eyes widen, before looking down at yourself, water still clinging to your body, clothes damp and a small puddle of water pooling where you kneel. 

“Yes,” is all you say as you quickly stand, putting distance between Clarke and yourself, 

“You weren’t… in the middle of something?” she asks then, laughter clear in her eyes, 

“No,” it’s a lie, but she shrugs, accepts your answer before standing. 

“Ok,”

 

* * *

 

You pace back in forth in front of Clarke now, the healer finishing the last inspection of her wound before he leaves. Your thoughts turn dark once again, and you glance at Shana where she stands by the door, her hand lingering on the hilt of her blade that rests against her thigh, “Kwin Nia grows more bold,” you say to Clarke then and she sighs, “She has mountain tech, Clarke,” and you pause, mulling over the new development, 

“I don’t think the torch came from the Mountain,” that surprises you, and you look up, eyes narrowing at Clarke, “I recognise it, I’ve used one just like it before, back on the Ark,” Clarke says then, and her eyes dart back and forth as she thinks the problem over, but you feel an anger burning stronger within you, and your own hand clenches painfully around the hilt of your knife,

“Your own people would have you killed?!” you growl out, your teeth clenching hard, and you think your cordon a necessary precaution, you think you will enjoy ordering those warriors to attack Arkadia, you think you will enjoy destroying them, you think you will gloat in the—

“No,” it comes out quick and harsh, cutting your spiralling thoughts off, “I don’t think my own people  would want me killed. When I was there they agreed that this was for the best, if we helped you,” 

“You said it yourself that your people were not so easily convinced,” and you begin analysing the ways in which a member of Skaikru could have slipped through your cordon, could have made it to Polis, 

“No, Lexa, it wasn’t one of Skaikru,” and you look back in time to see Clarke roll her eyes, “the person had Azgeda markings, okay?” and she draws her fingers across her forehead, “scars are Azgeda, not Skaikru,” and that gives you pause, but it does nothing to soothe the anger, the frustration… the _worry_ that burns within you at the thought that Clarke was attacked. But yet again she cuts off your worrying thoughts,

“When the Ark came down there were different stations,” and she must see your puzzled look, “different _ships_ ,” she amends, “some landed near enough that we could reach each other, some didn’t make it,” and you see the small breath she takes before continuing, “but maybe one survived, maybe one landed in Azgeda lands?” she finishes, a question to her voice, “would Nia keep something like that from you?” _yes._

“Yes, she would if it would give her power,” _Nia, the traitorous, poisonous, deceitful, evil—_

“If you let me look at the torch I might be able to tell you which station it came from,” Clarke cuts in once again, and so you turn quickly, catch Shana’s eye before she ducks out, and calls for a guard to bring the piece of tech. You know it will take a few moments for the guard to return so you sit on the bed opposite Clarke, one of many that line the long room that is the healers. You close yours eyes and take a steadying breath then, force your breathing to steady and to still your frantic heart, and when you open your eyes again you feel calmer, more at peace with the happenings of the day. Your eye catches the way the light filters in from the open window, of the sounds of Polis that wend their way through the halls of the Tower, and you look at Clarke, see the life that stills sits comfortably where it should. 

“Polis is beautiful,” it’s whispered, quiet and drifting on the back of the steady noise from those that move outside the healers room, and you look to meet Clarke’s gaze from where she sits opposite you, “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she finishes, a smile resting comfortably on her lips, and you can’t help but to admire the way the afternoon sun shines softly against her hair from where it streams through the open window, how it makes her eyes dance with a brilliance you would lose yourself in, if only you had the opportunity, and you whisper back to her, 

“Yes,” and you think her beautiful in the dancing of the light, “it is beautiful,”  

 

* * *

 

“Can you tell where this tech came from?” you question as Clarke turns it around, looking for something to tell her the answer that she searches for. She twists one end firmly, it coming free with an easy pop before she upends the device, a small cylinder shape falling free,  

“Batteries,” she says as she notices the furrow in your brow, “we use them to power this thing,” and you incline your head in understanding. You continue to watch as she inspects the inside of the device for a moment longer before Clarke lets out a triumphant sound, before looking up at you, a smile again on her face, a stark contrast to the slowly bruising cut that sits on her chin, “I’ve found what we need, see here? Those numbers? They’re serial numbers that tell us where this came from — which station it was used on,” and you nod your head only in half understanding, before she continues, “we needed to keep track of everything on the Ark, to make sure nothing was lost, so we marked everything with serial numbers — with names,” she adds for your benefit, “so all I need to do is radio Arkadia, ask them to run the numbers and it’ll tell us what station the torch came from,” she finishes as she starts to rummage through the bag that rests at her feet, “they gave me a radio to use if I needed to contact them,” she says as she holds up a small black box. And you recognise it from the similar devices the Mountain Men had used.

You see Clarke operate the device, pushing a button, turning another before there’s a faint hiss and then a crackle, she holds it up to her mouth,

“Raven, you there? It’s Clarke,” you hear the hiss again, a faint crackling and then the sounds of _things_ moving, being fumbled with— 

“Go for Raven,” you see Clarke smile then, for a moment, before she quickly continues

“I need you to run a serial number for me, Raven,” 

“Oh, yeah, nice to see you again, it’s been ages, how’s the kids? Yeah they’re great! Thanks for asking, Clarke!” Your eyes narrow then, and you think that the device speaks too much, if only because Clarke now has her head slapped firmly in her hand, 

“Look, I know this is sudden, but I really need your help. It’s serious, Raven,” and you hear the Wanheda that Clarke lets creep into her voice, and Raven must hear it too,

“Oh, ok, sounds serious,”  you think you hear a faint clicking from the device in Clarke’s hands, then Raven speaks again, “What’s this all about anyway? That’s if I’m allowed to know,” and again you see Clarke roll her eyes, 

“We found an Azgeda warrior with a torch,” and you smile grimly at the way Clarke leaves out who his target was and how close she came to losing her head.

“Oh,” Raven pauses then, “…OH… shit,” 

“Yeah,” 

“You think a station fell into their lands?” 

“I don’t know, that’s why I want you to run the serial for me,” Clarke says then, exasperation colouring her tone, 

“Yeah, ok, give it to me,” Raven, you think, is perhaps too talkative, but Clarke answers her with a string of letters and words before she goes silent, worry in her eyes and her brow furrowed as she waits for Raven to respond, “Hey, you still there?” 

“Yeah, I’m here. Tell me you’ve got something,” 

“Farmstation, Clarke,” and you see Clarke bite her lip then, her brow furrowing even more, she sits in silence for a moment longer, before she sends a thanks to Raven, telling her that she should inform the Council at Arkadia of the situation before turning the radio off. 

 

* * *

 

You pace back and forth in Clarke’s chambers, you think you worry a steady trail in front of Clarke, herself seated on her bed. Your thoughts turn over all that you know of Farmstation, Clarke had told you as much as she could remember and you think it makes sense that Azgeda now thinks that they can break from the Coalition. If they can grow food, can plant seeds that can thrive with the aid of Farmstation and its advanced farming they would not need to rely on Coalition for trade. The only thing stopping all out conflict is Wanheda, is Clarke, and the thought makes your blood seethe and your jaw tense, you feel the muscles around your eyes tighten, and you are sure a headache will soon follow. 

“Stop,” she says it firmly, a soft rasp to her voice, and you turn to her, an eye brow raised in question, “pacing, moving about, just stop for a moment,” and she leans back, so that she rests fully on the bed, her gaze focused somewhere above her, into the latticework of the bed frame. 

You still your pacing, turn to look out the open window and allow the breeze to wash over you, and you imagine it as a soothing caress, a warm embrace that quiets the turmoil that exists within your mind. You stay quiet for a moment, look out at the setting sun. And you see the way the orange glow dances steadily with the greying blue of the soon to be night of the sky.

“Your second, she is well?” you ask then, and you hear a muffled _Yeah_ in response, and you look over your shoulder to see Clarke stifling a tired yawn.

“I left her with Dala for the afternoon, I didn’t want her worrying about me,” Clarke adds before sitting up again and looking your way, her nose crinkled and her brow worried, “you can sit, you know?” and she waves to the couches that sit by your side, but you merely straighten your back, level your chin,

“I am fine, Clarke,” you see her roll her eyes briefly and again you feel a slight pull in your belly, and then she holds your gaze, her eyes steady and firm,

“Look, you should relax,” and she stands now, before gesturing around her face, “you’re tired, I can see it in your eyes, Lexa. You need to rest and sitting isn’t going to kill you,” she finishes as she comes to a stop before you, but you merely narrow your eyes, lift your chin even more, but now her words come out quiet, softer, her eyes becoming pleading, “You aren’t going to _die_ Lexa _,_ not from just resting for a moment,” and you open your mouth then to respond but she cuts you off, killing the words in your mouth, “No, I know you said you’re almost 21, and you believe the crap about Commanders not living long,” she pauses, takes a breath, “But you’ve done more than they’ve ever done. You built this Coalition, and it won’t die. _You_ won’t die,” she finishes.

You feel the back of your neck tingle softly at her words, you think you hear the faint whispered prose that has etched into your vey being, echoes of love and of weakness ringing through your mind softly,  

And you think it would be nice to believe in what she says, to be able to live in a world in which what Clarke says is truth,

But aren’t you the commander?

and isn’t it that to be commander to be alone?

In everything?

You don’t think Clarke believes it, you know she doesn’t, you know she thinks life should be about more than just surviving, and you think back to the tent, of her fiery gaze, you remember the whispered not yet that still lingers between you both, a thought, an idea, a dream that you thought would never gain life, would never be allowed to live and so you close your eyes for a brief moment, take a calming breath and hold it for a long steady beat of your heart, and you think you feel it then, the steady rhythm in your chest, you think you feel it beat and you think you sense the moment between beats, and so you open your eyes, look into the blue,

“What would you have me do, Clarke?”

“Just _live,_ ” 


	7. Chapter 7

_You leave your bed carefully to avoid waking Yasmin. She had begun sleeping in your bed since you both had arrived at Polis. Her nightmares sometimes come when she has seen Lexa and you don’t blame her. You know that Yasmin still misses Cleo terribly and you can’t help but to feel the same. You think it will always hurt. Will always leave an open wound in your heart — but you think  that means you care. And the pain acts as a reminder to remember the good, despite the bad. And so you carefully wrap warm furs around yourself, knowing that sleep will not come for a while and you carefully exit your chambers, casting a careful glance back at Yasmin, still sleeping a tired slumber._  

_The halls of Polis seem to wind and meander for long, long moments, and you think you enjoy it. You enjoy the feeling of discovery, if only slight, but you find wonder in the halls, history etched into the very stone that you stand on and you let your eyes roam slowly over the tapestries that line the walls. You see scenes of battle, of heroics and valiant warriors. Of commanders you think, and you let your eyes move from Commander to Commander. You recognise the eyes that stare back when you come to the last one, its story unfinished. You recognise the curve of her cheek and the tilt of her chin and you think you smile softly as you take in the younger Lexa that stares back at you, defiant and determined. And you think you have never seen her like this. Without the dark circles that exist under her eyes, of the haunted expressions she hides yet you still see within her eyes. And you think it hurts to know that she never had the chance to live as she wanted._

_You continue walking down the hallway carefully, and when you come to the throne room doors you find them open, a lone figure standing before her throne. You see the weight that rests on her shoulders and you see the strength in her posture. But above all that, you think she looks isolated, alone and tired._

_And you think that she should not have to exist, to endure by herself anymore so you call out her name softly._

 

* * *

It’s the quiet moments you find you enjoy the most. It’s the moments where the tower quiets, where the servants rest between the hurried waking moments of life within the tower. It’s the moment’s where the tower’s guards, ever present, ever watchful, stand silently, a constant aegis in the night, steady statues that linger within every alcove of the walls, by the doors of places not for those without the blessing of Heda. And so you pad softly down the halls, the moon a silent, watchful presence to guide your way, the flickering of the candle light, warm and dancing as it casts long shadows before you. It is times like this where you let your guard down, only a bit, only enough to feel just a bit like the girl you never had the chance to be, the life you never had the chance to live. It is times like this when the tower is most full of the Order of Heda, of those sworn to secrecy, those that will serve only Heda, only serve the recipient of the Flame and not the Flame itself. And you think it strange that there should be Orders for both, for the Flame and for Heda. But perhaps it is a reflection of the life that a commander must endure. Always in conflict, always a fight for survival. And so you pass them in your travels through the long halls, they nod their heads, sheath their blades when they recognise you, always vigilant, always poised and you think it fitting that it is when you are most surrounded by death, most surrounded by danger that you are least afraid, least worried, least burdened by what you are. 

Your feet take you before the throne room. You wait a quiet moment, your hand pressed against the worn, rough wood of the doors before you press forward, let yourself slip through the small gap you create and then you let the door close behind you. You step forward slowly, let your bare feet smooth over the stone beneath them and you feel the cold, you feel the cracks underfoot, you know them well, and then you stop before the throne, the pale moonlight resting silently in vigil. And as you look up to your throne, you think it lonely, you think it a sad existence of twisted wood and broken metal, of swords and spears and bows, each one added with the passing of the flame from one lonely vessel to the next. 

 _Soon._ you think you hear it whisper to you. _Soon._

Soon you will be allowed to live, to exist without the burdens that sit upon your shoulders, no longer tired of death in all its twisted, cruel, cold cunning. And no longer tired of life and its callous game of chance. You wonder then, what will be added to the throne. Your knife? Either of your swords? Both? All three? You think you will soon see it through the eyes of the next commander, and you think the thought a steady, constant weight within you that is familiar, comforting. Saddening. 

_Just live._

You think Clarke’s words over softly, let them wend their way through your mind. And as you kneel before your throne, letting the cold harshness of the stone burrow into your knees you think your heart heavy, you think yourself tired. 

_Just live._

Haven’t you been trying to live? Trying to make of your life what you can? To live with the decisions you have made? The death you have caused? The lives you have taken and the lives you have saved?

_Just live._

How can you live when you gamble with the life of Clarke? You think she should hate you. You think she will destroy you — you think she already has.

 _Just live._  

You feel it then. A wetness that pools in the corner of your eye, and so you blink. Softly at first. And you feel the tear slip from its place.

_Just live._

You feel it then. The heaving of your chest. The ache in your heart. The shaking of your shoulders. You hate it. You hate this feeling. And so you bite the palm of your hand to stifle the sounds that escape you. You squeeze your eyes shut as hard as your tired body can. Your fingers dig into your thigh, you let the ache of your wrist, never allowed to properly heal as it flares up once more and you let it engulf you, you let it live within you. And then you cry out into the nothingness of your mind, 

_What would you have me do?_

You feel it then. The slight tingle in the back of your neck. You think you feel its tendrils expand, you think you feel the thoughts that slowly seep through your mind. You hear the whispered words. The hushed memories that ease their way into your mind. 

You see them. The faint wisps before you. Shadows, never present but always lingering, always hushed and silent. And you try to hold them in your gaze, try to trap them when they appear but you never can. When you think you pierce one with your eyes it shifts and bends and eases its way to safety. You think you see one sit upon the throne. You think you feel it look at you. You think you feel the hands that close upon your cheek and so you close your eyes again and lean into the touch. You let the shadowed caress take you where it wishes and then you feel it slowly. It’s soft and quiet at first. It’s a broken staccato, too fast and too slow. But it’s there and you feel it grow stronger. You feel the rhythm as it warms your chest. And you think your heart beats softly, broken and damaged.

_What would you have me do?_

You whisper it again. You plead with every beat in your chest. And you wait. And wait and hope that you will feel an answer. You stay kneeling, your knees aching and the wetness of your cheeks drying. You think yourself weak. You know you are weak. And you know, even before you feel the words, even before you again feel the tingle in the back of your neck.

_Love is weakness._

_To be Commander is to be alone._

_In everything._

You think you have heard those words so numerously, so often repeated, a mantra and a prose. You would feel them, would say them without prompting. Without even thinking. And those words are what it means to be commander. You are sure of it. So you raise slowly then, lack of an answer already an answer enough and you turn, rub the wetness from your eyes, pad your way softly to the doors and you grasp the handle, apply the barest amount of pressure and as you pull you feel your neck tingle. You feel your mind quiet.

_Just live._

 

* * *

You walk down your hallway now, your chambers lying at the far end, and you pass members of the Order of Heda, silent sentinels in their watch. And between where you stand now and your chambers? The door to Clarke’s. She shares it with Yasmin. You had insisted that as Skaikru representative she must have chambers that were befitting her standing. And as Wanheda? Surely she must have the best available. But she is Clarke. And you think that reason enough. You continue forward slowly, careful to not make a sound lest you disturb either of the occupants. But you hear it softly, it’s quiet in its melody, it’s rich and entrancing in its rasp. And as you grow nearer to her door you hear it firmer, clearer. You hear the soft whimpers of tears being dried, of nightmares being comforted away and you hear the lulling of sleep and the warmth of a loving embrace. So you pause, press your ear softly to the door and you hear her voice. It carries a tune, unfamiliar and unknown to your ears but you recognise it for what it is and so you listen quietly, let it mellow your mind. And in this moment you think yourself weak. You know yourself weak but you indulge. If only for tonight. If only so that Heda may have the strength to continue with the rising of the sun. And when the softness of her voice tapers off, when it wearies and tires you pull yourself from her door, let your feet carry you to your chambers and before you enter you cast one last look over your shoulder, one last drawing of the weakness you must leave behind and then you turn, close your door behind you and let the Order of Heda watch over your sleep for one more night.  

 

* * *

 

You pull the last of your laces and then tie them, tucking the ends into your boots and as you move to stand you hear a knock on your door, and you recognise the careful pattern and so you call out. A woman enters, the same as the one who guarded Roan’s door last you had visited him and she bows her head once she stops before you. You finish strapping the last of your knives to your body and then you turn and face her. 

“Shana will attempt the trials come next winter,” You look carefully at the woman before you, you search for a twitch of her eye or a clenching of her jaw yet you see neither, “If she succeeds she will need a first willing to take her as a second,” you finish then, and you see by the quirk of a lip that your message has been understood, 

“She is exceptional with a blade for someone as young as her,” the woman says then, and you would smile, “I would be honoured to take her as a second,” and the woman bows her head softly again. 

 

* * *

 

Your day follows the steady pattern of the last number of days. You hear reports of warriors moving through Coalition lands, preparing to strike at Azgeda. You talk with the Ambassadors then, you inform them of your suspicions that Azgeda will cast off the other clans, that Kwin Nia is willing to wage war merely to prove her dominance. With Wanheda firmly on your side you know that the clans will follow. For now at least, and you think there will be problems, will be outrage even, when you reveal your plans for Skaikru. Your plans for Clarke. But for now you must deal with Azgeda.  

By afternoon you find that wounded warriors have begun arriving at Polis, Arkadia having treated those more seriously wounded, leaving those that are able to travel without aid having been sent to Polis and so you find yourself walking through the Polis streets towards the largest of the healer buildings. You are often greeted by joyful cheers of the citizens you pass, you let your gaze follow the children as they run underfoot and as they play mock battles around you. And you think you would endure this life for them.

The healers building is a sturdy, long construction. Rows and rows of beds adorn the interior, a single long room that holds shelves along every length of wall. Areas are often curtained, often hidden so that those that suffer may do so with peace and quiet and you see healers as they move through the wounded, you see seconds carry bloodied rags and you see firsts watch carefully as the youth learn to perform the skills of a healer. As you near the entrance you pass a steady stream of wounded and already seen to warriors moving about and you know that when the last of the clan’s warriors arrive you will march on Azgeda. And so it is with grim satisfaction that you look to your warriors, let your gaze fill with pride and you return their greetings with your own before moving through the doors. You think you should not be surprised that you find Clarke and Yasmin helping the healers as they work to care for each wounded warrior. You find that Yasmin has flourished under Clarke’s tutelage, and you think your heart warms for just a moment’s breath as you watch as she steadily finishes a suture, the ends of a wound touching in as clean a meeting as two pieces of flesh could. You don’t miss the way Clarke hovers just over Yasmin, worrying her lip from where it rests between her teeth, nor do you miss the way Yasmin’s brows furrow, in concentration, a careful mirror of her first’s own. But above all, you think you see the pride and affection in Clarke’s eyes as she gazes at the young girl.

Despite the death and suffering that surrounds you, for now you are content to watch — if only under the guise of worrying for your warriors — as Clarke and Yasmin aid the healers in their care for the wounded. And you think that it is in moments like this that it is your responsibility to observe, to understand and accept the suffering that you must rule over. And so you stand by the periphery, unnoticed and you watch as healer and warrior alike continue through their own stories, each one a drop in the river of time that flows past you.

 

* * *

 

You walk down the steps, the quiet echoes of your footfalls rolling down the stone tunnel. You received a message at midday informing you of the last of your warriors arriving and you know that by the setting of the sun the coming day you will send them forth to attack Azgeda at the border. You have already chosen which of your warriors will come with you. They number less than a hundred, most are scouts, well versed in moving quickly and silently through the lands. You have members of the Order of Heda coming too, and you have given them their own orders. You have not broached the topic to Clarke yet, but you think you already know her answer. You think you already know that she will insist she will come, if only so that she can help to free what could be members of her people imprisoned by Nia. 

You stop before the door, the lone guard bowing his head to you, his hand resting comfortably on the pommel of his sword, before he turns and unlocks the door. You step through the threshold once more and wait until the door closes behind you and then you move further into the room, the dampness of the air clinging to your clothes and the cold of the tunnel chilling your bones. As you take in the room you see that it has been cleaned, what little clothes Roan has been afforded already packed into a travel pack, and you see three guards carefully inspecting the weapons and armour you had delivered, their eyes careful and prying as they ensure everything is in order. Roan stands in the centre of the room, the white of the lotion shimmering the quiet red of the flame, as he passes a blade over his right cheek, the gentle scrape echoing out into the silence. You watch him for moments longer, and you see his eyes flicker to you from where he looks towards you in the mirror and you incline your head slightly in greeting, his own nodding carefully between strokes of the knife. 

“The armour is well made,” he says then, his voice a gentle gravel in the stillness that surrounds you, “the sword too is well balanced,” and you cast your eyes over to your guards, their backs already pressed to the walls, “I thank you for this chance,” Roan finishes.

“You would thank me for sending you to fight your own people?” you question in response, his answer a curiosity even if you think you know why he thanks you.

“Not to fight my people,” he says then, one side of his face clean shaven, “to do what is best for my people,” he continues, “I do not wish to see them suffer in this war. We are a proud people, a strong people. But many have been misled, have been led astray,” he concludes and you don’t need to hear him say by whom. 

“You would serve your people well, Roan,” you say then, “And I will continue to honour the oath Kwin Nia swore to the Coalition if you retake the throne,” and you see him nod his head again, and then he turns to you, 

“And if I do not retake the throne?” and you think you see the anguish in his eyes, you think he already knows your answer.

“Then the next commander will likely wage war against your people once again,” you say and at that you think surprise flashes across his eyes, only for a moment before he hides it.

“You do not think you would live if I fail,” he says then, “why take such a risk?” 

“To be commander is to live for your people, to endure when they can not and to take their suffering as your own,” you answer, “I would not wage war on Azgeda if there exists another way for bloodshed to be lessened, even if my life was put in danger,” and you see him smile grimly at you, then he wipes his face roughly.

“You have served as the Commander proudly, Heda. More so than my mother has served as Kwin of Azgeda,” he finishes. 

“Perhaps you will be able to right the wrongs of the past,” you think of Costia briefly, and you feel the faint stutter in your chest, but you don’t think it hurts. Not as much as it once did, “You will make a good leader for your people,” you finish.

 

* * *

 

You leave Roan after discussing details of how to slip a small force past the Azgeda borders and how to remain unseen. Only half of what Roan told you had been surprising, you had already known of the hidden passages through the lower valleys of the Mountains, but you had not known of the small outpost that was placed there, acting as both a watchtower as well as a way for Azgeda travellers to rest and to replenish their supplies. It will be easy to silence you think, only a handful of warriors, too many would draw too much attention and be harder to keep supplied when they in turn must supply travellers. And they do not know you now know of its existence.  

You continue to walk down the halls of the tower, a grim determination to the way your feet propel you forwards and you think you hear it whispered softly to you…

_soon._

Soon you will have accomplished what you had needed to finish since creating the coalition. it’s a heaviness of thought that pulls macabre images to the forefront of your mind, and you think you feel a steady, soft pull as they unravel and you think you can picture the battlefields of the past, of the red of the ground beneath your feet. You think you can sense the sounds of suffering through your mind and you know the memory for what it is. And when you feel the faint stabbing twist in your ribs you know the death that you suffered more than ten years ago. You think you remember them all, not at once, but once every little while a thought, a memory will conjure it up, will trigger a reflection to a time where you had once died as the Commander.

And should Roan fail, you think you know how this life will end. You think you will feel the bite of the blade as it cuts through your throat, of how you will choke and drown in your own blood. And you can’t help but to think it fitting then, that Costia suffered as you will. That Cleo also suffered as you will. And Clarke? You are happy knowing that, should Roan fail, she will be far away, safely surrounded by those that obey only Heda. She would hate you. But she would be alive.

As you continue to walk, a purposeful wander through the halls you find yourself at one end of the natblida chambers. Some doors closed, some open, and you hear the faint hushed voices as some study, as they pour over tomes, old and worn of battle strategy, of stories of sacrifice and heroics. You see some, older, that walk to and from their rooms, heads down, a heaviness to their posture that you find all too familiar. And you think you feel an ache in your chest when you look at Aden as he walks to you, and you wish it was not so soon. And you know as Heda that you should not feel so attached, that natblida are always told not to form bonds. But you know it is never so, you know that they will always do so and you mourn the anguish you are sure one of them will feel. And perhaps, in this moment, you are not so sure whether to survive the conclave, or whether to die in it, would be better. 

“Heda,” you look him in the eyes as he stands before you, his gaze heavy. You remember when he had first come to Polis. He had arrived only days before Joden became commander, only a just turned five and you think you see yourself in him. And not just in the similar ages in which you were taken from your families and thrust into a world so very different. But you think you see the way he carries himself. The way a weight lingers on his young shoulders already and you think that should you fall in the coming season that the spirit of the Commander would choose him. And you think the thought pains you, and you think it unfair, cruel and unkind that your own demons would merely be passed from you to him. 

“You train well, Aden,” you say then, and you see the faint smile in his eyes, “Titus says that you continue to do well in your studies too,” you finish and you see the small amount of pride he lets himself feel before he steels himself once more.

“You will leave soon?” he asks then, and you know he already feels it in the way you move. He had seen the same happenings six years prior and so you nod your head, let your hand rest gently upon his shoulder and give it the slightest of squeezes, 

“Yes,” you answer, “you must continue to train, to push yourself. To be fair and kind,” you pause and blink quickly before you continue, “but to be firm and confident and believe in what you think is right, and do what you think is right — continue to trust in yourself,” it comes out softer than you had intended, and you take a steadying breath and hold it for a moment. And you look into his eyes carefully, make sure he holds your gaze before you finish, “The commander’s spirit will one day see you again, Aden. I believe in that.” 

 

* * *

 

Yet again you find your feet carrying you through the quiet halls of the tower. The sun still many candle marks left before it is allowed to waken the land. You enjoy these moments and you think that this may perhaps be the last Lexa ever sees before the end. And so you savour it, let a small smile sit awkward and unfamiliar across your lips. You find yourself before your throne room once again and so you reach out, let your palm lay flat against the cool wood of the doors and you push them open carefully. You let them swing open slowly, an opening maw that beckons you forward. And you wait until the doors still in their movements, until they remain steady and poised before you walk slowly forward. You stop in the centre of the room and you cast your gaze around, to take in all that you have accomplished in your life. You see the banners of all twelve clans that line the wall, you see the cracks in the ground, and you see the smoothed edges as they roll under the soft fur that lines the steps. You see the darkened splatter that sits quietly across the far wall, all that remains of an assassin years gone that had lost his life. You think you remember that time, long before you were born, you think if you concentrate on that stain carefully, painfully, you can recall the moment in time where the assassin had tried to strike out. And you think the thought saddens you, if only slightly, so you turn your gaze away, look at the chairs that sit silently by the wall, thirteen now, twelve with a clan symbol etched into the headrest, and a lone, unmarked one waiting for the right time. You think it warms your heart that one day there will be thirteen clans, you think it would be fitting that those that lived in the sky will one day return to the ground and take their place. But perhaps, if only slightly, you think it sad, you think it unfair and unjust that you will not be able to see it with your own eyes. And you think it fitting that you will not be able to see Clarke then, but you know weakness when you feel it and you know that to be commander it to be alone. 

In everything. 

And you know that love is weakness. Perhaps you have grown too weak to be commander.

You’re about to turn away, to return back to your room when you hear the quiet footfalls as someone pads their way quietly down the hall. You think you hear them stop every so often, and you think you recognise the banners and tapestries they must stop before in the number of steps they take between moments of rest. And you think only one person would walk these halls, would find what hangs across the walls interesting still. And so you keep your gaze focused elsewhere, away from the open doors, if only so that you might not disturb her moment of quiet. You hear the footfalls come just a bit louder until you hear them stop where the doors hang open, you think you hear them shuffle in an awkward dance, unsure and uncertain. And as you wait for Clarke to decide whether she wishes your company or not you focus your eyes onto your throne and you let your eyes wander slowly across the twisted wood and metal.

“Lexa?” it’s quiet, careful and uncertain when you hear it, the rasp of sleep still hanging heavily in her voice. You turn then, slow and steady until you face her. Her body is wrapped in warm furs, her feet bare, toes clenching softly against the cool stone of the floor. 

“Clarke,” it’s simple. Safe.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” she asks, but you think she recognises that these are moments you have often, if only by the careful recognition you see dawn across her face and you remember the dark shadows you think must live permanently under your eyes. And so you merely shrug softly, 

“I often travel the halls when it is quiet, Clarke,” 

“I can leave,” she says then, “if you want to be alone.” 

“No,” and you feel the thought drift softly through your mind, _love is weakness,_ “stay, Clarke.” 

She comes to stand besides you in the centre of your room. You let the silence hang softly between you and you let her look upon what she wishes, her gaze casting long arcs across the room, eyes briefly flickering over the clan crests that adorn the banners, the thirteen chairs that line the wall and then her eyes land upon your throne. You see her take in the twisted wood of broken spears, of bent bows and beaten, twisted steel as it decorates where you have sat for the last years of your life. 

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers then, and you think it is, in its own archaic, anarchic way. You see the weapons of the past commanders, and you think it must look daunting to see one sit upon the weapons of those that have come before. 

“They are the weapons of previous commanders,” you say then, and you turn your gaze towards Clarke and you see the way the moonlight, in its pale hum filters through the curtains behind your throne and land softly upon Clarke’s face. You see the way her hair shines just a breath in the light and how it hangs long over her shoulders, braids keeping it from her face. She looks at you, holds your gaze in her own, “When a commander falls their weapons are added to the throne,” you finish. 

You see her smile softly, forlorn and macabre, “I won’t see any of your weapons there for a long time,” she says then, and despite the quiet of her voice you feel the force with which she speaks, and you think you should respond, if only to tell her that it is foolish to say such things, but she continues before you are able, “I’m coming with you, to Azgeda,” she finishes and you had expected it, had waited for when she would inform you.

And so you reply, “I know.”

You aren’t sure what spurs on your next decision, not sure whether it is wise or desperate, or some other emotion that you should not consider, but you move from where you stand besides Clarke, and you stand in front of her. And in this moment you think you may never get another chance to right the wrongs you have done her. Of the things you have made her do. And perhaps you are weak and selfish and a coward but you wish to ease the weight that hangs heavy on your shoulders.

“At the Mountain,” you pause, see her eyes narrow slightly, and you breathe in an unsteady breath. She looks younger you think, in the way the light shines carefully on her, in how it hides the hurt in her eyes and the pain she has endured and you think it seems easier for you to say what you are going to, if only because you wish not to face the pain you have caused. And in this moment you think yourself a coward. 

“I made a choice,” your hands close tightly behind your back, “And when I turned, when I walked away,” you feel the tingle in the back of your neck, “I thought you capable of anything. I thought you willing to do anything. To protect your people,” you finish, the words feeling unclean and leaden on your tongue. 

You think you would deserve any pain she causes you, any outburst of anger. And you think you would deserve a knife in your chest. But she looks at you instead. A quiet contemplation behind her eyes. She lets the silence hang heavy over you both, all that you hear the quiet, heavy rapid beats of your heart. 

“What you did hurt,” She says then, “but when I told you that I understood the decision you made I wasn’t lying. When I told you I might not ever trust you again the same way I wasn’t lying. And when I said I forgive you I wasn’t lying,” and she pauses, lets her thoughts catch up to her. “When I left I needed to get away from everything, away from everyone. I needed to learn to be myself again. And I learnt that. I learnt to be able to accept what happened. To understand _why_ you did what you did. But above all that, Lexa? I learnt that it is ok to not be ok. It’s ok to still be angry, to still feel hurt,” she looks away then, lets her eyes wander somewhere past you, and you feel the tingle in the back of your neck again, you think you feel the whispered thoughts, but before they can fully take form she continues, “I never thought of us as something temporary. It didn’t feel temporary to me. And when I said not yet, I meant one day. And it could have been soon, it could have been a day or a week or a month later. But it would have been soon.” 

 _but not anymore_ you think you would deserve the words you are sure she is about to say. And you feel the words whisper through you

_Love is weakness._

_To be commander is to be alone._

_In everything._

“But that _not yet_ still exists,” and that surprises you, makes your eyes widen slightly, makes your hands tremble behind your back and she must take you in then, must see the shock and the _fear_ that lives within you, “It isn’t tomorrow,” she says softly, her gaze tender and caring, “it won’t be next month. It probably won’t be next season,” she blinks slowly, carefully, “but _one day,_ Lexa _”_ and you are sure now that you feel wetness pool in the corner of your eye, you are sure you feel you lip quiver softly and you are sure you feel your heart beat erratic and desperate within your chest.

You see Clarke take one more steadying breath, you follow the rise of her chest, the intake of breath and the shuddering of shoulders and the small shiver that runs through her, she closes her eyes once more, holds them tight for a moment. And then she opens them. Lets the blue gaze steady and strong, a depth to them that is the stars in the night and the colours of the sun that paint the sky in a multitude of riches and storied history. She releases the hold on her breath then, you see her steel herself once again before she opens her mouth to speak one last time.

“But,” she swallows hard, wets her lips slightly, “if you betray me again—”

“I won’t,” you aren’t sure why you need to reassure her, you aren’t sure why you feel the need to profess your wishes, why you wish for her to see the truth, to _feel_ the truth. But you know she must, and so you step forward, and you let your eyes look into hers, and you hope, and pray and _wish_ for her to see the truth that you will say. But above all, you hope she sees the words you are too afraid to say, too cowardly to utter. And so you kneel before her, let your knees meet the cold, hard ground beneath you and you stare up at her, and you see her eyes widen slightly, see the breath that catches and the eyes that roam.

“I swear fealty to you, Klark kom Skaikru,” you think you feel a wet trail that slowly wends its way down your cheek, a crack and a truth that you let break free, and so you blink, your eyes never wavering from hers, “I vow to treat your needs as my own and your people as my people.”

But what you’re really saying? _I am weak._ What you really want her to know? _You are hers._ What you long for her to understand? _She makes you wish for a life worth living._

And what you wish her to see so desperately in your eyes?

_I love you._


	8. Chapter 8

There are tunnels that wind their way underneath Polis, many unused and uncharted, blocked off and restricted. But you move quietly through them, a small band of warriors meeting you at junctions and turns as you wind your way through. It had been a candle mark earlier when you had quietly knocked on Clarke’s door, the moon still sitting high in the night’s sky, and she had been dressed in her furs and leathers, her armour and weapons strapped to her body. And before she had left with you she had turned, knelt down before Yasmin and held her close, whispered words not for your ears gracing her lips and you had seen Yasmin cling to her and you had heard the quiet sobs that had escaped. 

“I’ll come back,” Clarke had whispered softly, rubbing a soothing arc across the young girl’s cheek, brushing loose strands of hair away from her face, “I promise, Yasmin. I’m not leaving you.” 

“I want to come with you,” and it had been broken and pleading, her eyes wide, wet with tears. 

“It’s too dangerous, and I don’t want you anywhere near the fighting,” you think you even heard Clarke’s voice break, “But I promised I’d take you to see Arkadia. And when this is over we’re going there, ok?” and Yasmin had closed her eyes, had scrunched them tightly and had shuddered a broken breath, “Ok, Yasmin?” Clarke had whispered again, urging the young girl to look at her. And so Yasmin had nodded her head, her shoulders shaking and Clarke had wrapped her in one last embrace, had whispered words of love and had held her close before she placed a desperate kiss on her forehead, 

“I’m coming back,”

 

* * *

 

The tunnels stretch on underneath polis, the space wide enough for horse carriages to be pulled through, and they have always been ready for use by the citizens of Polis, waiting for when the city may one day need to be evacuated. But in this moment all that lingers in it are a handful of your most trusted warriors, scouts and archers. Many the most experienced that Polis and the surrounding villages can offer. Prince Roan walks quietly behind you, members of your own guard tailing him quietly, their orders to ensure he does not die, and you even have some carefully shadow Clarke. You had sent the rest of your forces ahead, and you know by the day’s end conflict will have started at the border. You know that blood will be spilt and life will be lost. But you think that within a number of days, if you are to succeed, that you will not have to see bloodshed, not have to feel the burden that rests upon you again.  

The tunnels lead you further north, and you take a turn before exiting quietly into the early morning light. You see the mountains that mark the border between Trikru and Azgeda lands and you know that the outpost lies within them, and you know that if you can make it through the outpost then you will reach the Capital, itself not far from the border. 

The pace you set is swift and brutal, your small warband spreading out through the trees, breaking up into small groups with orders to rendezvous at a lake that sits at the base of the mountains and so you push forward, Clarke by your side. You had sent Roan with another group, you weren’t going to risk both you and him being eliminated by an unlucky turn of events.

Your thoughts are broken by the musings of Clarke, her eyes staring wide at the mountains that rise up before you not far in the distance, “How far is it to the Azgeda capital?” she asks, 

“No more than two days at this pace,” you reply, and you quickly turn your gaze behind you, to check that all members of your small patrol are still present. 

“I’m surprised it’s so close to Polis,” Clarke questions then, her hair swept back with the breeze and you can’t help but to notice the braids and beads she has woven into her hair.

“Azgeda lands are wide, but not deep,” you reply, “further north is too frozen, even for Azgeda. So their people live not far from the border, but they have spread out far. They have the largest border of the clans because of it, and the largest lands — even if most is uninhabitable,” you finish.

“I remember seeing the northern parts of the US from the Ark,” Clarke says then, a memory flickering through her eyes, and you think you will ask her what she means by _the US_ at another time, “the lands were all white,” she continues, “ice and snow,” she smiles at you briefly from where she rides besides you, “it was amazing to see. And I never thought I’d get to see it in person,” and you think that given another life you would have enjoyed seeing this part of Clarke, carefree despite the danger that comes. And it is at this moment that you feel a levity between you both, not strong, but it lingers and hangs comfortably between you both and you think that you will have to talk, have to discuss what you had done the night before when you had knelt before her. But it can wait. For now, at least. 

 

* * *

 

The remainder of the day goes by, a blur of aching legs and tiring horses. You regroup with half of your warband at a fork in the road, far enough away from Polis now that it would go unnoticed, but close enough to Azgeda lands that it would be unwise to travel with fewer numbers. Ryder, who had been in command of the second group rides up besides you as you duck under a low hanging branch, he greets you softly, eyes constantly roaming through the spreading trunks of the trees, their leaves and branches becoming fewer and less dense the further north you ride. The air around you has grown colder too, you’ve noticed and you are thankful for the warmer coat you have around yourself, and you see the rising steam from horses as they exert themselves and you know that soon you will have your party rest for the night before heading out early the following day. 

The sun sits low in the sky by the time you bring your party to rest, the dark too dangerous to move through on horse back, especially with the ice that is a constant companion to the ground now. You have your warriors spread out, and they huddle together for warmth, thick furs draped over their bodies and they pass dried meets and fruits and berries between them. Fire too dangerous for your patrol, the risk of being spotted to great. You find a spot, dry as can be expected and sit tentatively down, and you bring your sword out, cast a lingering look around you and you see many of your own warriors leaving their weapons in easy reach, ready and poised to strike out quickly on any intruders. 

“Hey,” you look up to see Clarke standing before where you sit, a small bag held out in her hands, “food,” she supplies, a small smile gracing her lips and she offers it to you before sitting down besides you, a small space between you both. You reach out, and you rummage through the small pile of dried fruits, you ignore the oranges and peaches and nuts and meats you find, before you spy the softened form of dried apples and you take a small handful. And as you bring the first piece to your mouth you look and see Clarke smiling at you softly, her eyes shining brightly in the soft pinks and orange reds of the setting sun, “apple’s your favourite?” she asks then, the air she breathes out gracing your cheek quietly. 

And you shrug deftly, “They are pleasant,” you reply and you see her roll her eyes quickly, a smile still lingering in her eyes.

“Whatever,” she laughs quietly and she leaves the small bag between you both, her eyes casting long arcs out to the trees around you, “It’s beautiful,” you look at her again, “the trees,” she says, “the sky,” she continues, looking up and you see the reds of the clouds as the sun shines through them.

“It is cold, Clarke,” and again you see her roll her eyes. But you think you agree. You see the trees, and how they stand in small huddles, in search of a warmth that never lingers long, and you see the slight branches as they reach out to each other, always in search of a companion. And you think it beautiful in its metaphor. In the way you feel a steady pull. And you think you will always long to feel a connection, but since you can remember you think all you have done is reach out, never to find another. But you think Clarke would be there. You think she would extend her hand to. If only you were braver. 

“What do you think will happen?” she asks then, a small frown etching itself in to her brows, and you see her worry her lip. 

“Roan will challenge Nia,” you answer, “they know not that he still lives. When he reveals himself it will give any who confront us pause,” you continue, “And Nia will answer the challenge. She is prideful and will think herself capable of defeating him, she will think him weak and untrained since his capture,” you look at Clarke again, “she would have left him to rot in the dungeons.”

“But you didn’t,” Clarke surmises, and you nod your head.

“I had him trained, I had him fed well. So he will be able to defeat her.”

“You kept him hidden for all this time?” she asks.

“Yes,” you swallow painfully around the lump that forms itself in your throat, “after he was captured,” you pause, take a breath, “I had a head delivered to Azgeda.”

“But not his,” 

“No, not his. But of similar appearance,” and you pause again and you cast a worried look Clarke’s way before you continue, “despite what had been done to it,” and you see her grimace faintly.  

And you think your heart heavy in this moment. And you think yourself in a vicious circle, once again facing Azgeda as they threaten to destroy what you have built. And you think Clarke must see the turmoil that quietly seethes beneath the surface because she reaches out softly, places a warming hand on your shoulder.

“It’ll be ok, Lexa,” and she smiles at you again, a quiet confidence living within her eyes. But you can’t help to feel the small ball of worry that rolls through you, that makes your blood pump just a moment faster than it should and you can’t help but to feel your breath shudder softly, and you wish the cold was to blame. But Clarke’s hand squeezes your shoulder tighter, more firmly, before her hand moves down to rest over your forearm, and she moves closer, “It’ll be ok,” and she looks into your eyes. But you can’t help but to turn away, to cast your eyes from hers, and you shut them tightly, try and block out the memory of blackened blood and a broken face that rips into your mind. And when you try to banish the thoughts the hair shifts and morphs, blonde slowly replacing bloody and matted, blue eyes replacing the dulled lifeless that haunt your dreams. 

“Hey —Hey, it’s ok,” its soft, quiet lest it carry on the wind, and she runs her thumb over the exposed skin of your wrist, “Lexa, look at me,” and you hear the pleading in her voice. You feel the gentle tug on your wrist and so you turn your head slowly, fear weighing the movement down, holding it back, but she ducks her head, forces you to meet her eyes, and when you look into her eyes you think you could lose yourself in them, could forget that you are not alone, and forget that you fear that she will die, will be slaughtered in front of you. And you think it would be easy to lean forward, to let weakness rule your decision, and when your eyes dart down to her lips, and you see the curve of her mouth, the small spot that rests quietly above her lip you feel the memory of soft lips and her body pressed against yours. But you know it can not be now. And so you look back into her eyes, and you see hers dart back up to yours and she smiles softly, it’s sheepish and timid, but you think it warms you slowly, and so you think you smile in turn, let it build slowly across your face and you think your cheeks awkward in their lifting, you think your lips unfamiliar in their curve but you see the smile and the brightness that lingers in Clarke’s eyes. She holds your gaze for a moment, her thumb still rubbing a soothing arc across your wrist and she smiles once more, before she whispers to you once again, 

“It’ll be ok.”

 

* * *

 

The outpost holds no more than fifteen Azgeda warriors. And you know from where you are perched on the tree tops that you could attack almost all and have them silenced for eternity. But you are loathe to cause more blood to be spilt and so you turn to Roan as he sits comfortably besides you, your eyebrow raised in question and you see him mull over the situation briefly before he nods to you, a whispered _do it_ leaving his mouth. And so you quickly drop your hand, and you see the arrows fly through the trees, and you see them strike the warriors where they stand and walk around the outpost. You see the arrows as they reach their targets, often two, even three striking a lone target, all to ensure that they die swiftly and quietly. And as the last arrow finds its target members of your warband explode from the underbrush and sweep through the outpost, quickly searching buildings, and you hear the telltale noise of a swift engagement before your warriors exit the buildings, signals of _all clear_ being waved about. You turn briefly and you see the pained expression the sits across Roan’s face but you ignore it and you quickly drop down into the outpost, the rest of your warriors spreading out, already searching for supplies that will aid in the journey. You see Clarke already attending to the sole wounded warrior, a small cut across her shoulder. 

“The capital is not far from here,” Roan says then, but you had already known this, you had discussed it with him prior to leaving.

“Yes,” you say then. 

“How will you inform the Azgeda army that Kwin Nia has been defeated,” he asks then, uncertainty colouring his tone,

“We have tech,” you answer, thinking of the radio that Clarke had used to talk with the woman at Arkadia, “We will use it to talk between the capital and the forces engaged in fighting. You will talk to them through it,” and Roan simply nods nods his head, content to leave the matter be.

 

* * *

 

The snow plains you cross are perhaps the most dangerous part of your journey. The vastness of open space giving any the chance to see you coming from afar. And you think that there will be fighting once you reach the capital, and you think it will be difficult to ensure that Roan is seen and heard. And so you look back to the warband, just under a hundred warriors, and you see the members of the Order of Heda that quietly surround Clarke and you know that they will take her away should you fall — despite what you know she will say.  

“We ride hard and fast,” you call out to them then, “we arrive at the capital in less than a candle mark. We will be confronted,” and you cast your gaze across them all carefully before your eyes settle quietly on Clarke’s, “Protect Roan until he is recognised,” and you look into the eyes of those surrounding Clarke, “protect your charge,” you finish and you see the acknowledgement in their eyes. 

You turn your horse back to face forward once more, and you cast your gaze to the horizon, and you think that if you squint just slightly, just enough, you can see the faint haze of the capital that sits lonesome in the distance. 

 _Soon,_ you think. 

 

* * *

 

You ride hard and fast at the head of your warband. They flank you on either side, spread out to appear larger in number than they truly are. And you feel the wind as it lifts your hair behind you and you feel the thrumming in your veins and you feel the sun as it kisses your face, the light giving you a power and feeding the beat of your heart. You turn your head to the right, and you see Roan, his eyes hard and his jaw clenched tight in anticipation, your warriors flanking him protectively and you turn to your left, Clarke in all her power as Wanheda atop her horse, the wind sending her hair back in a wild tussle of blonde locks and braids and you think the light sets her hair aflame, you think it halos her and signals the arrival of something powerful, something to be feared. You turn forward again, you loosen the quiver of arrows that are strapped to the side of your horse, and you breathe in steady and strong, the cool air biting into your nostrils and sending a warming chill through your body. You can see the capital slowly rising in the horizon, and as you look out at the fields as you whirl past you think you recognise the telltale sign of growing crops, of planted seeds and you now know the extent of just what Kwin Nia has been able to do with farmstation’s help. 

You let the anger that begins within you to burn bright and strong and as you race past a small hut you see a warrior, face scarred and weathered look up from beating a man, a slave, dark skinned and broken, and you see the warriors face contort in shock, recognition, surprise and anger before an arrow is loosed from one of your archers, and it impales the warrior’s throat, punching through it with a violent spray of blood. But you see the shock flash across the slaves face, you see his eyes land on Clarke and you see his eyes widen in recognition, and you see hers widen too, and you only have a moment to recognise the clothing he wears before you whirl past him. 

You’re galloping as fast as the horse can carry you, and you hear a warrior shout out a warning and you duck, an arrow barely missing you before you return one of your own, a blind shot to your right. You hear the horn then, the echoing of it as it rolls through the open field and you know you will soon be met with Azgeda warriors. Your hands clench tightly around your horse’s reins, your eyes scanning the horizon and you see them then, the horses that gallop towards you, you see the white of the warpaint across the riders’ faces and you feel an electric thrum that courses through your veins and you think you smile the first true smile you’ve had in many, many years.

_Soon_

 

* * *

You’re close enough to see the white’s of their eyes, the steam that rises with the breaths they take, and you see the poising of weapons for only a moment and then you crash against them. You let your arrow loose, and you see it find a target before you’re racing through the attacking Azgeda. You hear Roan above the roar of fighting, you hear him screaming _I am Roan, Prince of Azgeda!_ and you hear him repeat it over and over again, your warriors protecting him as he pushes his way through the defending warriors. In the chaos of combat you lose sight of Clarke, but you know she is as safe as she can be, and then you feel a hand grasp around your arm, you feel it give a sharp pull as your assailant tries to tear you from your horse, and so you swing your leg over your saddle, let the momentum carry you around and then you strike out, your blade slicing through the man’s arm and then you’re on your feet, your horse rearing back on its hind legs behind you.  

You ignore it, you duck under the swing of another warrior and you push forward. You’re running, you’re ducking and sliding under another swing and then you’re standing and you quickly block a frenzied attack before you leap forward, bring your hand onto the bridge of the attackers nose, and you feel it break and shatter under your blow and then you slip your blade into wheezing lungs. And you rip your blade out, let the blood spray across your face and you again search the bodies that crash against each other, and you see blonde hair duck and weave, roll and then leap onto an attacker and you grimace softly at the realisation that Clarke has seen combat before, has had to protect herself before, but you push it aside, and you quickly lunge forward, slide past another attacker and you let Ryder remove his head, himself having found his way to you in the frenzy.

_I am Prince Roan!_

You hear Roan’s voice again, and your head whips around, searching for him, and you know he must live, must still breathe by the time the Azgeda warriors realise who he is, and you see your warriors circling him as best they can, you see one take a sword through the thigh, pain flashing through her eyes before she drives her own knife into the attacker’s eye. 

_I am Prince Roan!_

You see an Azgeda warrior stumble if only for a moment, his head whipping around at the sound before an arrow is embedded firmly in his chest, and you sweep aside a spear thrown your way, the edge of your blade catching it before it can touch you.

_I am Prince Roan!_

You see a warrior stop mid swing, face opened in shock before he is thrown to the ground, an axe embedding itself in his chest, and you duck under an arrow, and you hear Ryder grunt out a curse behind you and you glance his way, only to see him pull it from his shoulder before he is again protecting your back.

_I am Prince Roan!_

It’s louder, more desperate, but it echoes and rolls over the field, and it must reach some further away, and you see more heads turn, you see more Azgeda warriors killed by their lapse of focus and then you are tackled to the ground, you see the blade aimed for your throat and you look into eyes full of rage and anger and then you twist your neck, turn your head to the side, and you feel the blade sink just barely into the side of your neck before you raise your hips violently, your lower torso lifting off the ground with a push of your feet and you strike the man in his ribs hard with the pommel of your blade and it throws him off balance, just enough for you to sit up, to bring the top of your head violently under his chin and you feel the shatter of his jaw and then you roll forward, and you straddle his chest before you punch your blade down hard into his chest and you feel the collapse of ribs and the exhale of a last breath. And as you look up once more you feel the stinging of your neck. You feel the burn in your veins.

_I am Prince Roan!_

Again, it stops more heads, you see a warrior gape openly at what stands before her, and you see as she stops mid draw of her bow, and you see one of your warriors snatch it from her grasp, you see him kick her legs out from under her and you see him pin her to the ground with his knee to her throat. 

_I am Prince Roan of Azgeda!_

You see Roan punch a paused warrior hard in the throat, you see the man gag with the strike, his hands clutching at his rapidly bruising throat, and you see Roan take him by the shoulder, you see him slap him hard across the face before he tosses him aside.

_I am Prince Roan of Azgeda! Heir to the throne!_

You see Roan throw another warrior over his shoulder, you see him turn easily and disarm a third and then you see Roan level his blade across one last warrior’s throat, before he roars out into the silence that surrounds you all.

_I am Prince Roan of Azgeda! Rightful heir to the throne!_

 

* * *

Silence hangs heavy around you, Your forces having formed a tight group before the Azgeda warriors, and you know that should they attack you would not last long, not against a force already numbering more than double of what you have at your back. You quickly cast your eyes over the faces of those behind you and you breathe out a relief filled exhale when you see blue eyes shining with determination, you see her chest heaving and you see the two shorter blades held firmly, comfortably in her hands and your eyes narrow if only for a moment at the cut that runs through her right eyebrow, and you see the blood that trickles down her face. 

“I am Prince Roan of Azgeda!” you turn to see Roan push his way forward, a sword held firmly in his hand as he stares hard and defiant at those before you, “I am the son of Kwin Nia, and I am the rightful heir to the throne!” he continues, his voice loud and firm, the gravel of it ringing out. And you see the shock that spreads across the faces of the Azgeda warriors, you see the recognition and you see the suspicion that marks some of their faces.

“Recognise the royal marks!” He roars again, pointing to the arcs that adorn his face, “Recognise the royal marks!” he calls out again, this time raising his shirt to expose his stomach and chest revealing the intricate curves and arcs that adorn his body. 

“Recognise _me!”_

You see the slow acceptance spread across the Azgeda faces, and you feel the tension that still lingers.

“I come to challenge Kwin Nia, I come to take the throne of Azgeda as is my birthright!” Roan calls out then, his voice carrying firmly across the open field, “I challenge her to single combat!” he finishes, his arms spread wide before him. 

And you hear it again, it’s whispered and quiet,

_Soon._

 

* * *

 

You stand before the walls of the Azgeda capital. The heavy gates still firmly shut before you. And as you look up you see archers with their arrows trained upon your small warband. You think you can feel the energy that rolls off your warriors, each one ready and willing to fight to the end if it is needed. Clarke stands to your left as Wanheda, and you see the way the Azgeda warriors eye her carefully, even fearfully, and you know they see the blood splashed across her face, and you know they think of how she faced 300 warriors and burnt them alive. And you know they think of how she ended the Mountain. And you know they fear her. You turn to your right to where Roan stands, his gaze steady and firm, and you see the clenching of his jaw and the grip he has on his sword. And then he steps forward, his eyes gazing around to those that stand before him. And again he repeats his challenge, his voice clear and determined and despite the years of combat, of conflict and fighting your hands shake slightly, your palms sweating in the cold and so you grip your sword tighter, you will your beating hear to calm and steady. 

Roan moves to stand before the gates, the Azgeda warriors parting for him, and then he stops, his shoulders squared. You hear it then, the faint groaning and creaking of heavy wood and metal. The gates open slowly, heavy in their movement, and as they swing open it reveals a figure, clad in light armour, sword held comfortably in her hands, her face twisted and contorted into a cruel, evil vision of hate. Your heart beats faster, your hands shake just that little bit more and you hear the whisper in your mind, and you feel the tingle run through your body

 _Soon._  

The woman steps forward then, her eyes moving slowly over Roan where he stands before her. 

“You are a traitor,” she spits, her eyes hard and cruel. 

“I come to challenge you to the throne,” Roan replies, his own eyes hardening, “as is my right as heir to the throne,” he finishes.

“I should have killed you myself,” she says then, and you see her eyes flicker to yours and you see them lower briefly, a smirk spreading across her face, “I should have known you wouldn’t kill him, _Lexa,”_ she taunts. Her eyes snap back to Roan’s then, “I accept your challenge. You are no son of mine,” and then she lunges, her sword poised and sharp, and it whistles through the air.

Roan steps back, brings his sword around and spins, before he slashes out, the blade just scraping her back and you see her grimace if only for a moment before she spins to face him, her eyes cold and hard. And they circle themselves now, the Azgeda warriors forming one half of a circle around them while your warriors form the last. 

Roan eyes her carefully, you see him test her footing and you see him slide to the side briefly, his eyes turning careful and cunning before he darts forward, kicks up sleet and snow before he drops to his knees, glides under her swing and spins around behind her and then he lunges forward, his blade poised to pierce her back, but Nia turns quickly, faster than her age would suggest and she brings her blade across his body to block the strike and Roan moves with it, bends his arm and allows the blade to scrape along hers before his elbow connects with her jaw with a sickening crunch and she spins away with the blow. You feel your hands turn clammy, and you grip your sword even tighter, and you see Clarke look at you from the corner of her eye, worry there for you to see.

Roan uses his strike to his advantage though, and quickly moves on her, and he lunges at her again and again, his sword swinging in short, sharp blows aimed at overwhelming her defence, and you see if only slightly by the narrowing of her eyes that she did not expect for him to have been allowed to hone his skills while in captivity. And again he lands a blow, this time against her thigh with a solid kick, loosening her footing and the he rams her with his shoulder, his greater bulk and strength enough to carry her backwards. And she falls hard, but she rolls with it, spins and poises her blade once more, but you see the way she breathes hard, you see the anger that fills her eyes.

“You have betrayed Azgeda!” she roars then, “You would serve your Clan’s enemy?” she spits, eyes still focused on Roan,

“I serve Azgeda and its people,” he says in return, before pointing to the warriors the stand around them both, “And I want what is best for my people!” and you see him angry now, “The coalition is good for Azgeda. We have flourished! We have survived better with the trade!” and then he again gestures to the warriors, “they have clothing that is not available here!” he roars out, “I see the wood of the buildings that we did not have before. Azgeda has flourished!” and then he lunges again, a ferocity to his movements, and as he swings he continues, “You would throw this all away!” he swings hard and fast, and Nia struggles to maintain composure under his violence and anger, and you think you see it then, the first crack in her defence when her arm buckles just slightly under a block, when her footing slips just slightly as she steps back and you know Roan sees it too because he moves faster, striking out with an open palm and shoving her back hard and she slides, her feet slipping from her and then he lunges, swings once more with his sword and slams hers from her grip. And with the motion he tackles her to the ground, his sword levelled at her neck and then he punches her hard, her nose breaking violently. 

And you feel it in this instant. You feel the rumble through the gathered warriors, you see their faces, some of shock, some of confusion, some of surprise and some of acceptance, of change. And you think you feel it in your veins, the thrumming of your heart and the beating of your chest. You feel the heaviness of your lungs and the breaths that struggle to escape. And you think of all the lives you have lived. Of all the lives you have taken. You think you _feel._  

“Heda,” Roan calls to you, his hand closed around Nia’s throat, her nose bloodied and bent, her eyes full of hatred and rage. And you meet his eyes, you see what he is offering you, and so you step forward, your legs feeling heavy and unresponsive under you and you see Nia’s eyes follow your movements, you see the wickedness that lives within them.

“Kwin Nia,” your voice is steady and loud despite the throbbing through your veins, “You dared to challenge the Coalition,” and you meet the eyes of the warriors around you, and you let your words sink in, “I will not punish the people of Azgeda,” and you stop, look into her eyes, “But you will suffer for your crimes,” and you feel a sickening sense of satisfaction that growls within you, and you let it thrive and roar beneath your skin.

You step forward, closing the distance between you both and as you reach her Roan steps back, bowing his head softly to you. And just for a moment you close your eyes, let the heat of the sun touch your face and you breathe in deeply, hold it for a moment in time before you open your eyes and look into Nia’s. 

And your eyes never leave hers as you crouch down in front of her. Your eyes never leave hers when you reach behind her head and grasp her hair tightly in your fist. Your eyes never leave hers when you pull her head back firmly. And your eyes never leave hers when you whisper to her

_For Costia. For Cleo._

And your eyes never leave hers when you draw your knife from its sheath. And your eyes never leave hers when you pull it slowly across her throat, letting the warmth of her blood splutter over your fist and you hold her gaze. You feel it. You feel the tingle in your neck. You feel the ache in your bones and the blurring of your vision. But you see it in her eyes. You see it despite the pain and anger. You see the satisfaction and you see the quirk of her bloodied lips as they curl one last time in a cruel smirk. And you hear the words in the back of your mind,

_She will have her revenge._

And as life bleeds and splutters from her you feel the burning that spreads through your veins, you feel the stinging of the cut on your neck and you feel the shaking of your hands. 

But before the darkness envelopes you, you think of Clarke. You think of her smile. You think of her laugh. You think of the kiss you shared and the _not yet_ that still lingers between you both. 

And you think that in this moment, in this slice in time, right before darkness takes you,

That you are… 

_alive._


	9. Chapter 9

_Lexa._

It’s quiet, faint, close.

_Lexa._

You hear it again, an edge to it, a warning, a scolding and a frustration.

“Lexa,” you sigh, continue to quickly rub the sticks before you, an attempt at creating a warming fire, “You are doing it wrong,” you look up, see the mirth behind the scowl and you glare hard, and continue to ignore the sighs of annoyance.

“I can do it,” you feel a touch of hurt deep down, and it bothers you, and you know you should have started the fire earlier, much sooner than you had. The damp of the ground making it almost impossible to do so now that the rain has started. And you feel the cold slowly creep into your bones as the chilling rain coats your damp clothes. 

“If you can do it then why are we not warm?” you glare harder at her then. And you feel your pride wounded, and you feel embarrassed, but you know she merely jests, merely teases because she can and because you enjoy it and so you lift your chin, a defiance in your eyes, but she sees the smile you can’t quite suppress, can’t quite hide from her.

“I can do it,” and again you turn to the sticks before her, but you think you _feel_ the roll of her eyes from where you sit. 

“It is cold, hurry up,” and you look up, see her wrap her arms around herself, a cruel shiver running through her body and you hate to see her suffer. You hate to see pain etched into her face. You wish never to see her suffer again. 

You continue to rub the sticks together quickly, and you feel the burn in your arms, you feel your fingers cramp slightly but you push through it, you feel your muscles tire, but you push through it and then you feel the warmth, you see the faint wisp of smoke and you smile, bright and carefree. And so you continue to rub the sticks, blowing gently until a flame takes hold and you quickly move the small handful of kindling to the larger stack of sticks. 

“I told you I could do it,” and it’s triumphant, it’s pleased and you look into her eyes, and you see the pride and the love that lives there. And you think she always looks beautiful, always looks radiant and full of life when the light of a flame dances across her face, when her eyes catch the glow of the flame and so you lean over quickly, ignoring the heat of the growing flame and kiss her gently and it’s chaste, eager and full of promise.

“What was that for?” she laughs then, but you know she doesn’t really need an answer, you know that all the times you have done so your answer is the same. Because you can. Because she is alive and in front of you. Because she still breathes. But you answer her the same, a smile in your eyes and your heart beating content in your chest.

“Because I love you, Costia.”

 

* * *

 

The fire keeps you warm through the pounding storm. The warmth kept close by the curve of the cave that you stay in and you think you are content to live like this, despite the harshness of the wild nature you find yourself in. And you find your eyes drawn to Costia where she sits before you, you can’t help it, you can’t help the way you smile when she catches you looking at her and you can’t help the way your hearts beats stronger when she smiles and you know you love her. You know that when you sleep you will dream of her, and you know that when you wake you will think of her and you think it strange, you think it childish and you think it carefree. But you think that above all you love her. And so you are happy to indulge, you are happy to be here, in this cave, a sole fire the only source of warmth.

 

* * *

 

The sun sets slowly over the horizon, painting the landscape in a richness of reds and oranges and yellows that set her hair ablaze, that makes her skin shine, a radiance that steals your breath. And you sit besides her in the mouth of your cave, your shoulders meet softly and your hands and fingers entwine themselves together. You rest your head against hers and you feel her brush her lips against your hair softly.  

“Do you miss it?” she asks then, a quiet intrusion into your drifting thoughts, and you hum in question, your thoughts too caught up in the beauty that lies before you. You hear her chuckle softly, before her elbow prods your side softly and so you raise your head, look into her eyes and she asks you again, “do you miss it?” and you think, you give yourself the time to consider. But you aren’t sure what she refers to, what she questions, and you should know what she asks but you can’t quite reach out and form the answer to her question, and so you lean forward, brush your nose against hers and kiss her softly, a smile playing on your lips, and you think yourself content, happy and carefree in your ignorance and you let your hands wander, let them trace teasing patterns against the soft of her thigh and when your hands wander further, when she gasps quietly you smile against her lips, and you let yourself just forget.

 

* * *

 

The nights are cold, but you would endure them forever, you would suffer the biting winds, if only to stay by her side, and so you do. You lie curled in front of her, her arm slung carefully over your body, her hand clasped tightly around your own. You feel her breath even out slowly, and so you roll over carefully, let her arm fall lightly between you both and you face her.  

And you let your eyes wander, you let yourself memorise the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw and the dip of her nose. And you think you would stay here, in this moment, with her by your side for an eternity if you could. And you think that in this moment, in this slice of time, that your heart beats just a moment in chaos before it steadies, before it calms. 

“I love you,” you whisper it quietly, let the words hang heavy between you both and you see her lips quirk up slightly, you see her shift closer to you and you feel her hand as it slips under the hem of your shirt, and your eyes narrow, you let out a soft gasp as her fingers wander of their own accord, “I thought you asleep,” you whisper to her, and she smiles brighter, full of joy and of life. 

“Maybe I am,” she moves closer, “maybe this is _my_ dream,” her voice sings softly to you, and she leans closer, her eyes still closed and then her lips meet yours and she rolls you over, her legs straddling you and her hands wander even further, and you can’t help but to let a soft whimper escape your lips, and then she whispers quietly,

“Maybe this is _your_ dream.” 

 

* * *

 

You crouch low in the undergrowth, your bow readied and your breathing even and steady. You glance to your side briefly, if only to check that she is still there and she smiles at you before she urges you forward with a flick of her eyes and so you let your eyes focus on the deer that grazes not far from where you are perched. You creep forward, you move when the wind rustles the leaves and then you draw you bow slowly, you feel the creek in the wood as it bends and flexes and you feel the breath you exhale as you look down the arrow. 

And you wait.

Your heart beats. Once. Twice. You feel the moment between beats, you feel the whispered thoughts and the tingle in the back of your neck and you feel the burning of your veins. 

And then you release. 

The arrow flies hard and fast, a quiet hiss as it glides through the air before it finds its mark, and the deer topples over, the arrow quivering where it has impaled the deer’s neck.

You grin at Costia then and she smiles back, and you find that you enjoy it when she is breathing, when her face is unblemished and life still lingers in her eyes. You crouch over the deer, pull out your knife and begin cutting at it, your movements precise and well rehearsed, your muscles reacting easily to the motions. Costia bends down besides you, her own knife held easily in her hands. And you think that these moments come easy. You think they are painless and you think that you don’t feel tired. You think you feel alive and so you look at her, and you smile, and you let your eyes wander across her face. And she looks at you, her own eyes full of emotion, but you see it. If only for a moment, if only for a drop in time before she hides it from you. But you chase after it, you try and hold her gaze and so you reach out, you take her arm and you squeeze softly.

“What’s wrong?” you ask then, and you feel your heart beat. You feel the blood that pumps through your veins and you think your lungs feel just a moment heavier.

“Do you miss it?” she asks then, her eyes sorrowful. And you feel it then. It’s barely there. Just a whispered caress that tingles the back of your neck. And you think, and you pause in your motions, your hands stilling. 

“What would I miss?” you question, your mind racing, your thoughts trying to piece together what she means. And when you look at her, when you see the sunlight touch her hair you think that for just a moment it glows, a brilliant, golden mane. And when you look into her eyes you think you see a blue, the colour of the sky.

But surely it is merely a reflection?

It has to be.

 

* * *

 

She falls and cuts herself one day, it is not severe but your mind races, your thoughts worry. You see the cut on her chin and you see the cut through her eyebrow and your stomach churns. And so you run to her, you cradle her in your arms and you whisper soothing words as you carry her back to your cave. She protests that she is fine, that the cuts are not severe, but you can’t help but let your mind wander. You can’t help but to think of a jagged cut across her throat and a broken face and you shudder, you clench your eyes shut and you squeeze her hand tightly, if only to feel the pulse that still thrums through her veins. And so you kiss her fiercely. You kiss her passionately and you squeeze her in a tight, tight embrace. 

 

* * *

 

You sit her by the fire, the warming flame enough to keep the cold at bay as you carefully clean her wound. You run a wetted cloth carefully over her cuts and you apologise, and you utter words of forgiveness when she winces, when she flinches from your touch. 

“I’m sorry,” it comes out quiet, truthful and heartfelt, and you feel your heart ache, and you feel your heart beat softly in your chest. And you see her eyes shine, and you see her lips quiver and it makes your heart clench painfully, and so you reach out, frantic in your movements when the tears fall, and you swipe them away, you cradle her face in your hands.

“What’s wrong?” you think you would cry too, “Please — Costia, please. What’s wrong?” and you feel her shake her head softly in your hands before her eyes open, and she looks at you, and you see the pain. You see the suffering and the hurt and the acceptance.

“Do you miss her?” it’s broken and shattered and it makes your heart freeze. It makes your lungs still.

_Who?_

You want to scream that you don’t know who she speaks of, who she means but you feel it, you feel the blue of her eyes. You feel the press of her body and you feel the soft of her lips and you shake your head, you wish to deny it. You wish to banish the thoughts from your mind. 

But Costia whispers it again, and it’s quiet and loving. It’s accepting and it’s understanding.

“Do you miss her?”

 

* * *

 

They come for her in the night. You sense them moving outside the cave entrance and you spring to your feet. She moves with you and you had known, you had both known that one day they may come. That one day they would come to take her from you and so you fight, and you fight and protect her with a ferocity and a desperation fuelled by love. You stand, back to back and you protect her as she protects you and you remember the days at the training ground. You remember the days of black and the days of suffering and of triumph and so you fight, you kill the first man who comes too close, you feel the blood that splashes your face, and you turn and see Costia behead a woman, and then you feel the sting of a blade that cuts your thigh, you feel your legs kicked out from underneath you and you feel the impact as you land hard onto your arm and you cry out in pain.  

Costia hears you, and you hear her cry out your name, and she rushes the last of the attackers. You stare, your eyes widened in fear and desperation and you try and move. You try and rise to your feet but you can’t. Your feet won’t move, your arms won’t push and you stare, helpless as Costia takes a blow across her face, blood pouring from a gash across her cheek and you stare in horror as she plunges her knife into the throat of a man, and you see the blood that gushes from the open would and you stare.

You stare in horror. You stare in pain and fear and anger. You stare as your heart breaks and you stare as your world crumbles.

You stare when the blade sinks into her stomach and you stare as the last man laughs.

And you stare as he walks away, his back fading into the darkness, swallowed by the emptiness that surrounds you.

“Costia,” you croak, you plead and you whimper, and your legs move, and you crawl, your arm cradled to your chest and you drag yourself to her, “Costia,” you whisper, and you feel the tears that escape and the tears that streak an angry trail down your cheeks, “Costia,” you reach her and you take her body in your arms.

Her hand clutches to her stomach, blood pooling through her fingers and you cry and your chest heaves as you hold her close, “Costia,” it comes out broken and pained and full of anguish and you feel the raging of the blood that runs through your veins and you feel the weight of your decisions that hang heavy on your shoulders.

She looks at you, her eyes full of pain but despite her suffering she smiles, and she reaches out carefully, takes your hand in hers and squeezes it softly, “It’s ok, Lexa,” she smiles, and you think it not fair and so you shake your head, again and again and again. 

_No_

“It’s ok, Lexa,” it comes out quieter. It comes out softer, and it’s coloured with acceptance. It’s coloured with understanding and it’s coloured with every pained thought, every ounce of suffering and hate and anguish and despair you have felt.

“It’s ok,” she breathes out softly, her eyes fluttering

“Please,” and you think you are crying now. You think your chest must be heaving and you think your shoulders must be shaking as you hold her tightly to you, “please, don’t leave me,” and you think your voice breaks. 

You know you are.

“It’s ok, Lexa,” and she reaches up, her fingers stained with the blackness of her blood, “I’m sorry my love,” And you cry and rage into the blackness.

And she whispers out to you through your anguish, “I’m sorry. I already left you,” and you shake your head and you squeeze your eyes shut.

_No_

And then you hear her words. they come out quiet and soft. But they’re sure and firm and you feel the words as she whispers them to you, “She’s waiting for you, Lexa” and you look into her eyes and she smiles again, and you see the love and the pain and you feel the clenching of your heart. 

“Tell me what to do,” you whisper, and as Costia’s eyes close you see the pulse in her throat slow and fade.

“You have so much life left to live, Lexa,” and it comes out quiet, soft and fading, and as her grip slackens in your grasp, her lips stilling you hear the exhaled breath. You feel the whispered words that shatter you apart. And then you feel the pull. You feel the tingle in the back of your neck and you see the twisting shadows that close around you. And when your eyes widen and your gaze turns frantic you feel the gentle caress of a loving embrace, and so you close your eyes. You hold them closed for as long as you can, if only to remember. If only to hold on to what you have lost. Of _who_ you have lost.

And when you open your eyes one more time you see them stand before you. And you smile, if only in pain and loss and your heart beats softly in your chest. And you let your eyes take them in. 

And you see them. 

_Mother. Father. Sister. Mentor. Protector. A love that never had the chance._

But _she_ isn’t there.

And then you hear the whispered words. You feel them as they wend their way through your body.

_You can not follow where we go, Lexa._

_Not yet._

And so you ask out into the emptiness that surrounds you and you let your words echo for those to hear.

_What would you have me do?_

And their answer comes firm and strong.

_Live._

 

* * *

 

Pain is constant. It’s heavy and throbbing and it courses through your body. And you think you should feel accustomed to it. You think you are, but still. After all these times it hurts. It makes your bones ache and your muscles protest each feeble attempt to move. Sound comes back to you at first. It’s muffled, quiet and dampened and you hear it through the wall that is the aching of your head. You think you hear a song, unfamiliar but recognisable and grounding. And you think you recognise the soft rasp and the gentle words that grace your ears. Smell comes next and it assaults your nose and leaves a tingling behind and you think you smell the scented candles and richness of foods and the foulness of potions and tonics. Touch follows smell, and you feel the soft furs that you must lie upon. You feel the gentle hands that braid your hair and the soft caress that slides carefully across your cheek and the soothing arcs that are rubbed across your wrist. 

Sight comes last, and your eyes open, the light too bright and too sharp in the dark of the room. And as you force your eyes open, and as you force them to see, you recognise the latticework of the bed you lie on and you recognise the curtain that hangs before the window and you recognise the furs draped across your body.

_You are home._

 

* * *

 

You think you must sleep for days and nights. Your thoughts a constant maelstrom of confusion and anger and pain. In your fitful waking moments of rare clarity your thoughts turn to Azgeda, and you anguish and dread over what must be happening, and you anguish over the state of your warriors. And you despair over your lack of knowledge. 

_Where is Clarke?_

 

* * *

You wake fully, and you think days must have passed and so you sit, your back protesting the movement and your eyes scan wildly around your room and you reach for one of your knives hidden within your furs. And you startle her, and her head shoots up from where it lay across your bed and you grimace if only for a moment as her head collides with your elbow and then she curses, her hand clutched to her forehead.  

And then her eyes meet yours. And you see the blue. You see them widen and you see the breath that freezes in her throat. And then she is up, moving to the door and barking orders and you hear the scrambling of feet and the hurried words that pass from mouth to mouth and then she is back by your side. She looks carefully at you and she moves her chair slowly, closer to the bed. 

And she stops. Her eyes flicker carefully across your body. And then she smiles and it makes your heart beat and your pulse thrum steadily in your veins.

“You’re awake,” and so you nod, and you shrug and then you wince at the pain that shoots up your neck, and you see her eyes widen slightly, “Yeah, don’t do that,” she says then, her lip between her teeth, “Roan said the poison’s nasty stuff. It messes with muscle, so you’re going to be sore for a while,” she eyes you carefully.

_Roan. Azgeda. The war._

“What happened,” it comes out stern, an order and you don’t miss the way her eyes narrow and you move to swing your legs out of the bed but her hand pushes you firmly back down.

“First,” she pauses and stabs a finger into your chest where you lie, “don’t move,” and you open your mouth to protest but she frowns and glares hard at you and so you submit, if only because Clarke _is_ a healer, and _probably_ does know what is best for you in this moment.

“Second,” she continues, “Roan has control of Azgeda. It wasn’t pretty and someone challenged him as soon as Nia died and you collapsed,” and she rolls her eyes and you think she looks incredibly displeased with the turn of events, “But yes. The coalition won, and Azgeda is now back on team Coalition,” and she smiles then.

“I was poisoned,” you say then, and you think you remember the stinging of your wound and the heaviness of your breaths. 

“Yeah,” 

“How long was I incapacitated,” and you see her eyes roll again and you think you should feel insulted at the lack of respect. But you don’t. You think you feel something else entirely.

“You were,” and she pauses, raises her hands and makes an unfamiliar gesture with her fingers, “incapacitated,” she lowers her hands, “for almost a week,” she pauses, takes a breath and then she continues, “You’ve only been back in Polis for two days.” 

You take a moment to think over what has happened. You let your thoughts race and you let a silence hang between you both. And you shift then, your hand trying to find the comforting grasp of one of your knives, if only for a slight semblance of reassurance as your mind sifts through the confusion that days worth of missing memories provide.

“If you’re looking for your knives I had them moved over there,” and you look up at Clarke as she points to your desk and your eyes narrow at her action, “you’ve been stabbed enough over your life that I didn’t want you rolling over one in your sleep,” she continues, a small shrug lifting her shoulders. And you think your eyes narrow. 

“You know I have been stabbed?” you ask then, and you think you see her blush slightly, and she ducks her head, looking away for a moment.

“Yeah,” she says then, and you frown, and when she looks your way again you see her smirk, if only slightly, “look down.”

And so you do, and you find yourself in a simple chest binding, your furs bundled at your waist.

“Oh,” and you think you feel heat rush to your face. But you don’t blush. 

You don’t.

“Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

You recover slowly, your muscles protesting the strain and you silently send curses to Roan and you wonder, only for a moment, if you would be allowed to send an assassin to kill him, or to at least stab him with the same poison. But you know Titus would frown on your decision, and you know Roan didn’t _really_ do anything wrong, but still? Surely he has some guilt, if only by association. 

You spend your waking moments over the next few days discussing Azgeda punishment, trade embargoes and repayments — especially due to their now increased ability to provide food — with the other clan ambassadors. You even hear of the Skaikru rescued from Azgeda, Roan freeing them immediately, and you hear of how farmstation had landed within two candle mark’s ride of the Azgeda capital and how they had been attacked immediately. And you know that they will prove difficult to integrate into those at Arkadia. But you don’t worry, and you don’t think it will prove too difficult a task, especially with your yet unannounced proposal of Clarke becoming ambassador and Skaikru becoming the 13th clan. But that can wait. It can wait until you are stronger and things have settled.

You are often checked by Clarke during the afternoons, her status as both Wanheda and healer affording her the access many would not be allowed. Yasmin accompanies her everywhere, and you think Clarke allows her to follow wherever she goes if only as reassurance to the young girl that she will be staying right where she is. And you think you will be happy to have Yasmin near. And you know that your face still haunts her, but you think that when she looks at you she hurts just a slight bit less and you think that, given time, she will open up to you. And perhaps you are selfish, but you find yourself looking forward to it. 

 

* * *

 

It’s an afternoon, later than usual, your meeting with the clan ambassadors dissolving into an argument over who would receive the first carts of extra food from Azgeda. You sit on your bed, the orange of the sun filtering through your curtains, painting your room in a soft yellow glow and Clarke stands before you, her eyes careful as she watches Yasmin carefully inspect your wound. You wince slightly as Yasmin prods it carefully and she offers a quiet _Moba Heda_ but you don’t mind. You think you enjoy this quiet moment with Clarke, Yasmin and yourself. And so you breathe in softly, cast your eyes towards Yasmin and reach out, if only in words and you hope she will reciprocate. 

“Clarke tells me you are very skilled as a healer,” and you see her eyes widen in shock, and you smile softly as she looks back to Clarke as if for confirmation that you speak to her. And you smile just a slight bit more when Clarke herself smiles at Yasmin, and then the young girl turns to face you, pride in her eyes,

“Thank you, Heda,” and you smile softly at her, and you find it so, so familiar as she ducks her head in embarrassment, her lip between her teeth. 

“Have you met Shana?” you ask then, and you think they must not be too far apart in age, and you see her frown slightly, her eyes turning up in thought, “One of my handmaidens, close to your age,”   you add.

“Oh, yeah, I have met her,” and you don’t miss the way Yasmin blushes yet again and you see the way Clarke’s eyes narrow slightly. 

You think you smile again, and you think this moment peaceful and quiet. 

And as you observe Clarke and Yasmin you think you feel a tingle in the back of your neck and a whispered memory that takes a warming hold in your being.

 

* * *

You wander the halls of the tower. The moon sits comfortably over Polis and you feel content as you pad your way down the natblida hall. You know they sleep, and you know that they had worried at your absence. And you feel guilt, if only slightly at the thought. You stop quietly in front of Aiden’s door and you place your hand on it carefully and you pause for a moment. You let your thoughts catch up to you. And then you open it quietly, and you know he will wake with the sound, and so when you step in he already sits, his eyes searching the darkness before him and you see him tense for a moment before relaxing as he recognises you. 

“Heda,” he whispers out to you, a question in his voice.

“Aiden,” you reply and you think your voice soft and perhaps much less like Heda than it should sound.

“You are well?” he asks then, his hand rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Yes, Aiden. I am well now,” and you smile softly at him. And you really aren’t sure why you came. You aren’t sure if you came to reassure Aiden. Or if you came to reassure yourself. But in this moment you are sure that it is a decision ruled by weakness and so you reach out, let your hand rest softly on his shoulder and squeeze it gently before you whisper to him, “I am proud of you,” and you see his eyes widen slightly in surprise, and you think your heart beats strong in your chest.  You lean forward then, and place a soft kiss on his forehead before you stand, wish him a peaceful sleep and exit his room. And you think, that in this moment, as you walk down the natblida hallway that you aren’t weak. And that what you feel is not weakness.

 

* * *

 

You find yourself walking through the doors to your throne room, the moonlight casting it in a pale glow and despite the cool touch of the stone beneath your feet you feel a warming breeze. You come to a stop in the centre of the room and you find yourself kneeling down softly. You close your eyes then and let your mind drift and wander where it wishes. 

You stay kneeling for long moments. But you think it comfortable and familiar. And you wait, and let the moments drift by until you feel a slight tingle in the back of your neck and you feel the soft whispers that embrace you. And when you open your eyes you think you see the shadows that dance and bend softly, swaying in the breeze before you. 

You hear the words then. And they’re familiar and comforting.

_To be commander is to be alone._

_In everything._

But as you listen to the soft echo that winds its way through your mind you think you feel a lingering tension that builds, and builds. 

And when you focus on it for a moment longer you think it snaps. You think it takes hold within you and slowly spreads.

And you think of when you first took the flame. Of when the thoughts had first taken a hold within you.

And you think of how you felt yourself not as Lexa. And not as the Commander. But as both. As two beings combined. And you think you realise now. You think you understand. And so you embrace it. And you think of death and those that have died. And you think of those that must live with the consequences of your decisions. And you think you understand now that it is the Commanders duty to shoulder the burden. To endure and to suffer so others may not.

And you think of Lexa. You think of the girl that has known suffering. Has known pain and death. And you think of the woman who has only ever wished to _live_. And you think you understand now. You think you understand that Lexa _can_ live. Can survive _with_ the Commander — was always supposed to be there, to give meaning to the suffering and to give cause to why the Commander endures. And you think that perhaps all it took was a poisoned blade. A love lost and a love to be found.

And your mind brings forth memories. But not of a time when she lived. And you smile and you think of Costia. And so you whisper out softly to her, 

_Thank you_

And you hope that she rests peacefully, where ever she may be.

And you think you feel it. You think you feel the beat of your heart and the steady thrumming through your veins. And you think that the Commander is that moment between the beats of your heart, never really felt but always there, And you think Lexa the beating of your heart, And you think that both exist, always one after the other, together in everything.

And so you smile. perhaps the first real smile you have had in many, many years. And when you look out at the shadows before you, and when you let your eyes gaze into them they steady. They still and they linger. And you feel the gentle caress and the soft whispers. And then they fade too, soft and quiet in their retreat.

You hear it then. It’s quiet and careful, but you recognise her steps. And so you stand slowly, let the breeze carry her to you. And then you hear her steps halt at the entrance of the throne room, and you hear them pause, an uncertain dance in their movements. And then she calls out softly, 

“Lexa?” 

And so you turn. And you look at her as she stands, the moonlight bathing her in a pale glow, her hair glowing softly and her body wrapped in warm furs, and so you smile. You feel your cheeks move softly and you feel your lips curl quietly. And you see her eyes widen, just a bit and then she smiles back, and you feel it. You feel your heart beat. You feel the blood that pumps through your veins. And you know it.

You know that in this moment. In this drop of time that you are not weak.

And you know that love is not weakness. 

And you know what you feel. 

You feel _alive._

And so you let your eyes meet hers, and you breathe in steadily, surely and you hold it for a moment. 

And as you let it out you think that in this moment you want to just…

_Live._

“Clarke.”


End file.
